


New Blood

by AWriterForYou



Category: Monster Prom (Visual Novel)
Genre: Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demisexuality, F/M, Found Family, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Other, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-01-02 05:16:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 121,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21156230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWriterForYou/pseuds/AWriterForYou
Summary: Liam de Lioncourt is reminded of his immortality when most of his friends die, leaving him, Damien, and Oz in a fractured friendship with a great divide stretching between them Liam doesn’t think he can cross. After ghosting them, the two struggle to get him back, unleashing a torrent of murder, mystery, lost family, and interpersonal drama in their wake.





	1. Elise of Salt

A story is a narrative filled with characters.

But it's not actually.

That's not what a story is, only what it is made of. 

The same could be said about a family. It's a collective, containing people who share blood. But what kind of blood depends on what the members are made of. 

It could be common blood, the kind that coagulates when brothers meet for the first time in college, never quite fitting in with the ones who raised them only to look into each others' eyes and feel like they've known each other all of their lives.

It could be forged blood, the special kind found between women who have been shucked together by society, which circles overhead as they hit rock bottom. They each only have enough money to pay for half a room, so they forge a cautious alliance, sleeping next to each other on a shitty mattress. It will become clean someday, and fluffier, lovingly placed on an expensive bed frame in a penthouse far away.

It could be hemophiliac blood. The members have been through families before, only for things to go wrong. So as they begin to fall into a new one, they flinch, despite an unnamed something continuing to draw them together. They will clot together eventually, but it'll take time. But they are young, even if they are no longer unafraid, so they have nothing but time -- even if it doesn't feel like it. In the past, they were sometimes reckless, sometimes brilliant, sometimes just stupid, and because of it, they are now afraid to live life to the fullest. The wild journey to discover who they really are left them with scars. But that only leaves us to experience the ultimate challenge.

The thought of that feels exhausting. At twenty, it feels like I've already experienced the ultimate challenge again and again as it relentlessly evolves and reappears in front of me. I know that sounds pretentious coming from a teenager. For most people, eighteen or nineteen is the beginning of the challenge. It's the beginning of being pushed out of the nest, of managing your own time, of being treated like an adult. It's full of firsts.

For me, it's the first time I don't have to worry about Rosalind beating the shit out of me. 

Belts are pretty standard when someone wants to traumatize their kids. So in my sea of foggy memories, the welts don't stand out to me as much. It's the build-up really, that gets me to stop walking on the sidewalk and start muttering to myself because suddenly I'm somewhere else until someone looks at me weird and I remember who I am. 

Rosalind (I refuse to call her my mother), was erratic. There wasn't a consistent thing that set her off. What was a rule one day dissolved the next, and what was considered a grave offense changed by the hour. But there ** was **always something that set her off. Maybe the dishes she asked me to do before 9 pm weren't done by 5 pm. She'd yell my name from the other room, I'd peel myself off the bed with dread, and walk to where she was. She'd let me linger in silence for a moment, before asking me why I hadn't done what she asked.

It was important to answer with "I thought you said". The more definitive "you said" was a lie in Rosalind's house, and lies were always said with a roll of the eyes and disrespect, even if they weren't. It took the hours she required to wind herself up and compressed them into seconds. 

Or maybe it wasn't really important. Because she'd always end up doing the same thing regardless. After saying I didn't listen, she'd lay into my other faults, what they said about me as a person, how I was terrible to her. If she was having wine, she'd call me a few cusses. All the while she would grow louder and louder until she was red in the face, up in my face, and shaking the walls of the house with her voice.

In the beginning, it _ destroyed _me. My mother was the only other black person I knew where we lived, and I was not welcomed at school. Despite her cruelty, she was successful and smart, able to buy a gigantic house with expensive refurbishings exactly to her likings. Her disapproval had me crying until my eyes swelled shut. My nose would coat my mouth in snot and I would have given myself the shivers.

That's when the beatings started. Because there was no right answer to her questions or demands, and my sniveling was taken as something sarcastic. In the morning I had a pounding headache. I already had other medical issues, and the stress didn't help. I got sick a lot.

In high school, desperate to survive until eighteen when I could be on my own, I learned to numb myself. It worked so well that I didn't notice that wanting to die wasn't normal and that splitting into threes wasn't how consciousness usually functions. Until I was sixteen, I stayed like that.

I think most people would call that bad blood. I cried when I left it behind, and I cried again when I was afraid I would be dragged back to it. And when I was done crying, I began to shed the numbness and felt a longer deeper than anything I've ever felt in my life.

I want new blood so god damn bad.

I think everyone is familiar with the mortal desire to belong. It is not only present in people but monsters as well. As a witch, I am no different. I fantasize about it constantly.

I want blood filled with excitement and intimacy. I want blood fit for going on world-spanning adventures to uncover fascinating mysteries and beautiful places. I want for the people that share that blood to be close and spend extremely late nights together texting stupid jokes to each other or watching Netflix while eating junk food. I want a family that regularly checks in on each other and helps with each other's projects.

I want I want I want.

I know I sound a bit over the top when I describe all of this, but I don't care. I've done the "toning myself down so I don't sound overdramatic", trying to appear normal, keeping to yourself and not letting people know you want to hang out with them because blah blah blah. Living southward with Rosalind has left me with PTSD, DID and clinical depression for the rest of my life. I'll never be normal. 

But I can still be soft and easily impressed. I still have time to appreciate all the little things that make me happy the same way I've been forced to dwell on everything that upsets me. I can get new blood, I think, if I try hard enough, made up of people like me who have done through similar hardships. My people are out there somewhere, wanting the same things as me. It may take some time because the sort of things I want don't just happen in a day and if my people are anything like me they still have some things to work through. I still flinch at the idea of sharing parts of myself, even though I want the intimacy that follows. But like I said, it's the ultimate challenge.

It'll be worth the exhaustion.

"Good lord that's a lot to process in the morning," I mutter aloud.

I stare up at the ceiling of my room, trying to find something else to muse about. My body still feels heavy with sleep, and it's so warm under my sheets. Getting started on my dailies means I would have to shrug them off, and I still want to enjoy them a little longer.

My alarm goes off again, a reminder to start my routine flashing on the screen as the sound of old car horns fills the air. Sighing, I drag my hand across my face and force myself to sit up.

"You've rested long enough," I say aloud, "It was your idea to start getting up early, and you've already wasted five minutes you were supposed to spend on getting started."

The time on my phone looks almost accusatory. When I looked at it last night, I promised myself that I would listen to it when it told me to get up.

"You have too many things to do to be wasting time," I tell myself, "You don't want to turn into someone who promises themselves they're going to do all these cool things, and then twenty years down the line never delivered."

I force my jaw to unclench, rubbing my temples.

_ 'Use that to motivate yourself, not guilt yourself.' _ My therapist's voice echoes in my mind. 

I've spent days where I paced around the apartment, entirely fixated on how much time I wasted and how I was losing time. I don't want to fall into that loop again.

Taking a deep breath, I reach for the notebook on my throw pillows. The edges of the cover are looped with dark strips of leather. Gold swirls frame the designs carved into the tan front of the book, and I place my palm on the rearing beast displayed on the badge in the middle.

The study of magick is far more like exercising than actual studying if you ask me. Reading ancient texts is nothing if you never put them into practice. Regularly doing magick, regardless of whether I truly need magick in a situation, creates adeptness. It's kind of like building muscle. And my journal is where I keep notes on my daily regimen.

I flip open the book to where I last wedged my pencil. Closing my eyes, I begin to chant aloud.

"Tough as a nail, sharp as a thorn

Tough as a nail, sharp as a thorn

Tough as a nail, sharp as a thorn

Ví-send-a-kona

Ví-send-a-kona... "

I continue my reconditioning chant until my alarm beeps again for the next phase. My mind feels focused now, and while I do not feel intense confidence, a genuine assurance that my spells will turn up results is settled in my mind. I place my palms on my body, willing my energy flow from eyes, through my head and to my shoulders. Just as it reaches my stomach, my body spasms and I let out a cry.

Purple clouds my vision. It's pale, like lavender, but blurry. Slowly, the image focuses and I see the outline of a lanky man. He floats in an empty space, a scowl on his face. The side of his head is shaved, leaving the rest of his hair to fall over his face in a sloppy band. I notice a small man bun on the back of his head, but it's loose and falling apart. Rectangular glasses frame the faint bags under his eyes. Coffee stains cover the saggy turtleneck and corduroy pants he's wearing. He looks terrible.

He's further now, a lavender spot in the white distance. Without anything else around him in the space, he also looks incredibly lonely.

I jerk back to reality, clutching my chest when my heart skips a beat. It's not a romantic skip. Rather, it feels like my body stopped while I had my vision, and just remembered it was supposed to be working.

Coughing as air fills my lungs, I lurch up from the bed and lean on my office chair.

"What the fuck?" I cuss.

I've never been psychically intuned _at all _. It's one of the fields I'm still working on. But that was definitely some sort of psychic vision.

"From who?" I ask myself.

I glance at my tarot cards but dismiss the thought of some sort of being trying to send me a divinatory message. I can't see how a purple man had anything to do with warning me about something, and nothing about him seemed to say "seek me out".

My phone starts beeping again. Its time to move onto my next magick building exercise. I hesitate. It seems stupid to just dismiss what happened.

"I'll figure it out later," I promise myself, "I don't want to go too off schedule."

I'm not done with my magick work until much later, and the entire time my thoughts drift back to my vision.

_ I'm kind of excited I guess. This must mean I'm making more progress than I thought, but what did it mean? _ I think.

I pick my computer off my desk and open it. Maybe my new success had leaked into other areas of my life.

Slowly, I check the dashboard for my website and YouTube. My heart sinks as I see no new orders from my store, and my subscriber count stuck at the same number its been for weeks. The two things have been my passion projects for a while now. The website is much older. Built when I was sixteen, I got my business license at around the same time, hoping to sell enough stuff off of it to be independent. The lack of uptick makes it feel like I'm falling behind.

"Don't dwell on it," I straighten my spine.

I walk over to the wall next to my closet. Forcing myself to look at the paper I taped to the wall, my eyes scan over my long list of hobbies. As I take note of the ones I've managed to practice this week, I start to smile. I've managed to make it to shadow boxing and archery classes twice, and I kept up a daily word count for working on my book.

I still have a lot to keep up with. There is my Zumba class coming up, more videos to make and Spanish to practice this week, but it seems like I'm on the right track.

_ I still need to work on my next sewing project. _ I remember.

Stepping out of my room, I walk towards my dad's, only to be met with an open door and empty room. He must have left early for work.

"Breakfast for one then," I yawn and head into the kitchen.

As I make a protein smoothie, I relish the number of things I'm doing, counting them all again and again. Voices from my fantasies slip past my lips.

"You're so cool Elise," I softly whisper, "Wow you box? Wow, you know archery? Oh, you're doing all that cool stuff? You're so interesting, wanna be friends?"

My cheeks turn red.

_ Am I seriously getting flustered by compliments I'm giving myself? Gods, I'm glad no one is around to see this. _

I try to force myself to be serious, biting my tongue as I pay attention to the smoothie machine. But my giddiness forces it's way through and by the time I'm pouring my breakfast into a cup, I'm doing a little dance.

Bouncing from foot to foot as I head towards the bathroom, I wiggle in front of the mirror, switching from taking sips to getting ready.

My mood doesn't stop until I'm done washing and slipping into my clothes. I fixate on how my shirt and socks are the same pattern and texture, with the same thing being true for my pants and jackets. Matching sets with a degree of separation; the key to a perfect outfit. Layering on my jewelry, I follow up with makeup done in perfect symmetry. What odd touches there are, like painting rosy cheeks on my brown skin, is done with precision, and I can't pull myself from the mirror until I'm sure everything matches.

I'm reminded of the purple man. As messy as he seemed, his clothes had a sense of organized chaos. The choker on his neck was corduroy like his pants, albeit a different color, and his socks were the same pattern as his turtleneck. The vision suddenly seems less mysterious.

"Maybe if we ever met face to face I can give him some pointers," I pose.

I zone out for the rest of the morning, leaving early for school and pacing around the library until it's time for class. Half paying attention to my college lecturers, I try to take notes, but find myself erasing and remaking them every time a line gets messy or a handmade indention isn't the exact same size as the rest. I try to tear out the note pages I hate as quietly as I can, starting over again. By the end of classes, I have the exact same information I started classes with, only far more neat and redesigned.

"I'll get what I missed in class from the textbook," I sigh, plopping down in a library seat.

_ It shouldn't be too much on top of homework. I'll do it when I get home. _

I hesitate after the thought. _ Will I do it when I get home though? _

I look into my homework notebook at the assignments I promised myself I would get done over the weekend. None of them are crossed out.

_ I'm just going to go home, procrastinate and go to bed, aren't I? _ I scowl. _ Wasn't I all "get stuff done this morning?" What happened? _

_ No. _ I immediately correct myself. _ I was focused on being put together. Right? I'm pretty sure I was being meticulous. _

The two conflicting streams of thought duke it out, and a headache starts at the nape of my neck. 

"Dammit," I swear, "Did I switch? "

"Could you keep it down?"

The voice is strangely distinct, like a sort of strange, deep whisper that manages to be a regular volume at the same time.

I turn around to apologize, and nearly jump out of my skin.

"Purple man?"


	2. Liam de Lioncourt

_ Whose idea was it to mix black coffee with oranges? _

I scowl down at my cup. The smell of bitterness and acidity clouds against my face as it releases steam. Blanching, I glance around the campus coffee shop, wondering if anyone else is just as befuddled with the baristas' choice.

There aren't that many people to observe. The only person sitting at the normal tables is a half-awake looking girl sipping at a huge water bottle. Most of the shop patrons are hanging out at the high rise tables with tall chairs closer to the cash register. I watch one of them dump a gigantic mound of sugar into his coffee cup. Another one lingers by the seasonings, squeezing half a bottle of syrup into her order.

Usually, someone changing their order by adding sugar is enough to make my eyes roll back into my head -- if you're going to change your coffee that much why don't you order something else, to begin with -- but in this case, I can't blame them. Today’s main brew smells absolutely foul.

Not that I planned on drinking it, to begin with. I've never actually consumed anything the shop had made. But their brews are usually pretty good, and I like letting the smell of them waft against my face to wake up in the morning. 

_ Well, I'm angry and alert now, so guess it still managed to wake me up. _ I muse, standing up from my table.

_ I can't dump this in the trash can. Then the smell will be lingering in the air until someone takes the bag out. And it's still piping hot, so it might melt through the bag and cause trouble for the workers. Disrespecting minimum wage employees is so passe. _

My eyes wander over to the restroom. _ Ah, I'll dump it down the toilet. _

Quietly striding over to the facilities, I push open the door and hover inside a stall. Flicking the white top off of my order, I turn it over and watch the contents disappear down the drain.

"Good riddance," I drawl.

Wiping away the steam that's collected on my glasses, I accidentally leave a smear of my fingerprints against the lens. Groaning, I pluck them off and go to the bathroom mirror.

"Today's is just the Monday of annoying little inconveniences isn't it?" 

Turning on the water in the sink, I run my glasses under the stream. Peering at my reflection as I wait, I touch my cheek with my other hand, surprised.

"Do I really look like this?"

Getting used to seeing my visage in the bathroom is still a bit of a new experience. Humanity has used silver backing in mirrors for so long that I've gotten used to not being able to use them. But as of late, producers have replaced silver with some kind of fiber-substitute-so-and-so, and I've been able to see my vampiric reflection again.

The man staring back at me doesn't look like he's doing so well. Bags hang under my eyes, and what I thought looked like a long suave bang looks more like I just forgot to take care of the part of my hair isn't an undercut. The bun I made out of some of my hair seems to have come loose when I wasn't paying attention, my hair tie left behind on the ground somewhere. I thought this purple suit jacket was cleaner when I fished it out of the hamper, but now that I can look at it in the light, I realize there's some sort of dark stain stretching from the left side to the back.

The only part of me that looks clean is my matching wrinkled dress pants and my mesh crop top. I'm pretty sure the latter only looks clean because it's 90% holes. It's pretty hard to get empty space dirty.

"It's eccentric," I tell myself.

Even though I'm able to keep my voice from shaking, I still sound unconvincing. My voice doesn't have the same indifferent swagger it had when I attended Spooky High, my third round at high school.

As I'm reminded of my time as 4XX year old, my old friends emerge from my memory. The smile that was forming on my face quickly dies, and I shove my glasses back on, still wet.

"I need a distraction," I drone, "It's too early in the morning to think about death."

Floating out of the restroom, I consider my options for the day. An uncomfortable mix of strange sadness and happiness has started to bloom in my chest, and to my horror, I know exactly what to call it.

"Nostalgia," I cringe as I say it out loud, "The most cliche of emotions."

Closing my eyes, I force a flurry of images to the forefront of my mind, trying to force my resurfacing memories to the back.

"Avant-garde magazines, unique artforms, specially cultivated rare plants, mind puzzles . . . "

I gasp, lingering on the last object on my list. I dash back to my table and reach from the messenger bag I left next to my chair. Reaching into the front pocket, I pull out a strange bottle.

Small with a narrow neck, the bottle contains a miniature log that rests against the bottom of it and sprouts out the top. Someone drilled a small hole in the log, where a screw with bolts on both ends is laced through. Another hole is drilled further down the log, a long bit of metal resting inside it. A wooden ball untethered by anything rolls freely around the bottom. 

The goal is to figure out how to get the long log out the bottle since the screw in its middle keeps it from being removed. I've been fiddling with it for days, and even though it's left me stumped countless times, the erudite struggle is equally as delightful.

_ The perfect distraction. _ I think. _ I'll hunker down in some nice corner of the library and fiddle with it for the rest of the day. _

Walking out of the coffee shop, I bask under the cloudy sky overhead. I usually have to carry an umbrella to be able to walk around outside without being destroyed by the sun, but Salt's recent weather makes it so I can stroll around without worry.

Glancing off to the side, I swipe some dew off of one of the campus's countless plants. The university, along with the rest of Salt, is as manicured as it is gorgeous. Besides the well-kept lawn and nondescript bushes, unique plants are placed all around campus with the Latin names displayed on nameplates staked in the dirt. The recent rain makes it all glitter in a very literal way, water hanging off everything from the foliage to the buildings.

"It's a little much, honestly," I say to no one in particular.

I'd be less cynical about it if it didn't come with such a strong religious community. Despite being perfectly kind in the few instances I've met them, the overwhelming presence of the religious people in Salt makes it sort of feel like a slow burn horror movie. Smash cut to an idyllic looking town, all of the natives seem friendly to outsiders, everything seems perfect, then the local winter-summer-spring-fall whatever festival or carnival or celebration rolls around and everyone who's not part of the local group starts disappearing or whatever . . . .

_ Reminds me of the cult of Z'gord. _ I remember. Zoe's face pops into my mind and I flinch.

_ I really must get to the library. _I pinch the bridge of my nose and pick up my pace.

Traveling down the winding sidewalk to the brick building in the distance, I make a mental note to start bringing some of my culinary creations into the coffee shop from home.

_ Maybe my work will rub off on the baristas and I can save everyone having to dump as a bucketload of sugar into their drinks to make it consumable. _ I muse.

The thought brings out a satisfied smile, and by the time I'm walking through the doors of the library, I'm in a far better mood. Giving a nod to the people at the front desks, I trek upstairs and take a deep breath.

Old paper and leather fill my nose; wonderful palette cleansers. Regarding my options, I can either settle down in the open den filled with plush chairs or venture deeper into the bookshelves that are bordered by tiny desks and settle by one.

"I don't want to risk someone coming up to me and trying to talk," I grumble, heading towards the desks.

Kicking back a chair, I drop my bag and sit down. I rest the bottle puzzle on the desktop and before I know it, hours have gone by.

I'm snapped out of my trance with the sound of footsteps. Stiffening, I hope whoever it is isn't coming up to try and talk to me.

The footsteps stop just in front of me as the person sits down at the desk ahead. My relief is undercut as they start talking to themselves. The thought of having my distraction interrupted by the ramblings of a stranger starts to nag me.

_ Let's nip this in the bud. _ I decide, standing up.

Floating over to the stranger, I reel back as they suddenly shout.

"Could you keep it down?" I snap, irritated.

_ Honestly, this is a library. _ I silently gripe.

They have the decency to look abashed as they start to turn around. As they meet my eyes, surprise suddenly appears on their face as they shout again.

"Purple man!"

"Um, yes, I am purple," I take a step back.

They stand up, whatever they were dealing with forgotten. The recognition accompanying their surprise makes me scour my memory. 

African American with an oval face, they have a thick afro and a round nose. Perfect eyeliner frames their dark brown eyes along with a pair of gold frames and matching jewelry. They've taken great care to shape their eyebrows, and due to the dark shade of their blemishless skin, the faint red on their cheeks appears to be blush. The pink on their lips also seems to be makeup, due to their lack of a dark upper lip.

_ Very clearly cares about their appearance. _ I discern. _ Did we meet at some sort of fashion show? But if we did, wouldn't they remember my name? _

"You look different though. A suit and crop top instead of a turtleneck and slacks. I wonder if that means anything," They muse. 

_ Means anything? _ It only takes me a moment to process the hint. 

_ Ah, this is something supernatural. _

Ever since I moved to Salt, my interactions with the unmundane have spiked downward significantly. The sort of wildness I went through in the past hasn't been present for a while now. But I can still recognize one of The Coven's most common sayings.

"Are you a witch?" I take a wild guess.

Their eyes widen before narrowing warily.

"What does witch mean to you?" They ask.

I don't blame them for being cautious. There are plenty of religious people in Salt that consider something as little as carrying a clover for luck as sacrilegious. For all they know I'm about to tell them they're going to hell.

"I used to hang around witches. It's an interesting subculture," I reply.

They relax, "Oh! Then, well, I guess you could say that I am a little superstitious."

Now it's my turn to be cautious. Back in my Coven days when Joy, Faith or Hope ran up to me talking about a vision, it meant bad things were ahead.

"Are you a purple man? Sorry, I forgot to ask you your pronouns," They apologize before I can dig for more information.

"Yes. Now about," I start.

"Mine are she, her, hers," She clarifies for me.

I make the mental switch from neutral pronouns to feminine. 

I try to restart, "Thanks for telling me but — "

"I like your aesthetic," She looks me up and down, "More men should wear crop tops."

I place a hand self-consciously over my chest. Even though I knew I was showing off my torso when I got dressed this morning, it was more so for the sake of the outfit. Now that someone is looking at me closely, I'm starting to realize how much flesh I've exposed. A thick band of fabric covers up my nipples, but besides that my abs are completely exposed.

"You don't have to ogle," I blush, inching back towards my chair.

She shakes her head, "I don't mean it that way. Corduroy is one of my favorite fabrics and the lines in the fabric compliment the lines of the perpendicular mesh your top is made of."

"Oh, um, thank you," My blush stops being because of self-consciousness and starts being because of being flustered.

I stutter for a second, before clearing my throat, "I apologize. I'm just starting to realize I haven't talked to another person in a long time. Er, I like the fur collar you're wearing and how it seems to be removable instead of being attached to a shirt."

She smiles, flashing a small gap in her teeth. 

"You're doing great in my opinion. Thank you so much. Ah, cool, is that a Greecian Bottle Puzzle?" She points.

I look down at my hands where my bottle is clenched in my fist. I must've forgotten to put it down.

"I've done one before. I know how to solve it," She chirps.

"Really?" I offer it to her, "I've been trying to figure it out for days. Show me!"

Grinning, she takes it her hands and struggles for a moment, before walking back to my desk.

"I need a surface to rest it against. My hand isn't big enough," She explains.

She slowly turns the bottle around until the little wooden ball rests under one of the bolts of the screw. Resting the side of the bottle against the desk, she slowly moves the log so that the bolt moves against the wooden ball. Slowly, the bolt begins to turn. 

I gasp, "So you use the ball to help unscrew the bolt off so the screw can fall out of the hole and you can pull the log out!"

"Yep," She squints, concentrating.

"Ah, no, don't finish it for me. Let me try," I beg.

She hands the bottle to me and I eagerly copy her movements, a sense of thrill shooting through my body as the bolt finally screws off. Turning the bottle around, gravity pulls the screw out of the hole without a bolt to hold it in place. I grab the other end of the log, the metal in the hole folding against it as I pull it out.

"What's the piece of metal for?" I ask.

"It's a red herring," She answers.

"What rush of serotonin," I gush.

"Wow, you really like puzzles," She says.

"I like anything odd, it keeps things interesting. If you stay in the mainstream for too long things start to get boring," I drawl.

"I got into them because I like the look," She explains, "Like some sort of old riddle someone a thousand years ago would spend pondering over at his ornate looking desk. He's got all these old leather books on his shelf, a crackling fireplace, all of these cool pieces of china and interesting trinkets on the wall. The room is covered in tasteful area rugs, crystals, and stuff, blankets and pillows, sort of like a Ghibli movie . . ."

She trails off as I regard her intensely. 

"Sorry, am I rambling?" She looks at her feet.

"No, you seem engaging," I look at the clock, "We should hang out more."

I say it before I think it over, but once the words leave my mouth, I don't regret them. Having checked the time, I make note that half an hour has passed without me noticing. 

_ She's a great distraction. _ I think. Considering I just solved the bottle puzzle, I'm due for a new one.

She opens her mouth, speechless. Grinning, she picks at her nails, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"Seriously?" She breathes.

Her barely contained excitement about hanging out with a stranger is strikes me as odd. But then again, that's why I want to hang out in the first place.

"Yeah, I'll bring more puzzles," I promise, "Do you usually hang out in the library?"

"It's my favorite place on campus, so yeah," She nods.

"Great, we can solve another one the next time we run into each other," I say.

"It's a deal," She grabs my hand and shakes it.

_ Okay then._ I raise my eyebrows and shove it into my pocket when she lets go.

Before I can say anything else, she stands up from my desk, goes back to her own, grabs her things and immediately dashes away.

"Well you didn't have to leave," I mutter.

Now that she's gone, I'm alone. More importantly, I'm alone with my thoughts, nothing left to distract me. No bottle, no disdain for a coffee order, nothing. 

I chuckle nervously, embarrassed to feel so wary.

_ I'm a grown man, what's wrong with me? I can enjoy a few seconds of silence. _ I tell myself. _ Who am I, Damien? _

_ Fuck, no wait. _I immediately regret the thought of my old classmate as my mind drifts.

Among the people I went to school with, Damien LaVey was one of the few that are still alive. A year ago, he contacted me, eager to hang out again. In a lot of ways, he was the same: loud, sprinkling cusses in between his words like they were adjectives, suggesting all sorts of dangerous things we could do.

But at the same time, there was something gentler about him too. He called me "brother" instead of Liam and teased me a lot less over the phone. He had asked what I was doing, sounding strangely protective.

I could tell taking him up on his offer would open up a plethora of things I'm not ready to deal with.

I hung up before he could finish talking.

"Great, now I feel like shit," I groan.

I gather my things and start to leave.

"I need a drink," I declare.

There are plenty of wine options back at my apartment, and if I find that one of them doesn't suit today's tastes, I can always go bar hopping. 

_ I have enough money to get drunk enough my blood becomes chardonnay. _ I think. _ I could buy an entire apartment complex and stuff it with bottles. Let's see how messy I can get before someone has to carry me to a taxi. _

I take my leave with a sigh, lips curled. I was so close to having a stress free evening.

\-----

Behind a stack of books, Oz frantically tapped at the keyboard on their phone, heart hammering in their chest as they waited on their boss's reply. They had been following Liam for weeks, and this was the first time he had a conversation lasting more than a few seconds with anyone. Finally, news worth reporting back.

Three grey dots appeared on the left side of their screen. Oz played with the pearl in their ear as they waited for the reply. They perked up as the phone buzzed.

** Collect her. **


	3. Oz

_The Boss says the best lies contain the truth. So . . . _

My pen hovers above the page. I bite my lip, nervous. Not because I'm going to be lying to this woman, but because if I go with The Boss's advice, I going to be telling her things I desperately don't want to get back to him.

_ But I kind of do want to tell someone. I could finally get all this anxiety off my chest. Or at least some of it. _I sigh.

The first lie? According to The Boss, I've seen the woman around campus and developed a bit of a crush. I want to take her out on a date. Not just one where we went out to eat, but a shopping spree. From the description I've given him, The Boss concluded that she cares about her appearance. Any suspicion she might have about someone she doesn't know asking her out will be forgotten at the chance of getting to buy whatever her heart desires. I'm supposed to use a gift card The Boss loaded with a ridiculous amount of zeros and commas, and tell her that I've been saving up to treat her.

It's a sweet lie. She looked ready to pass out when Liam said he wanted to hang out later. Hearing that someone admires her enough to spend money on her? She's probably going to actually faint. 

_ I'm going to faint too if I can't figure this out. _ I drag my hand through my hair.

While getting the plan started seems unlikely to fail, keeping it up might just kill me. She's going to expect small talk, which means I'm going to have to lie throughout the date, and based on my skills, there's no way I'm going to do it convincingly without sprinkling in the truth.

_ Saying that I like the quiet and reading is going to be relatively easy but _ , I bite my lip. _ What is she ask if I've ever gone on a date like this before? If I've liked anyone before? _

Looking back, I think The Boss is the only person I can say I've ever had a crush on. Not because I've never liked anyone before, but because it's the only time my feelings have ever actually felt like a crush: painful, unrelenting and with a high chance that they might kill me. I followed the dangerous man like a puppy, all through high school and straight to his fathers' empire when he took over. 

If he ever found out I feel like I'd die on the spot. It'd feel great to get it out, up until I was met with his disgusted stare. Of course, if I end up talking about him in response to my date's questions, I won't mention his name. But there's a nagging paranoia that'll she'll somehow just know, tell The Boss and cackle with him about my foolishness as lightning cracks in the distance.

_ You always have a nagging paranoia. _ I chide myself. _ When aren't you a mess? _

Glaring at my reflection in the polish surface of my home desk, I dissolve into my chair and reform in its shadow. My heart is starting to race. Click the button of my pen over and over, I begin to pace around my room.

_ Come on, don't have a panic attack, you idiot _ . _ You need to finish this schedule before bed. Calm down. _

After a minute, the percussion in my ears dies down. Sighing in relief, I walk back over to my desk and plant my palms on its surface. Rereading what I have on the itinerary so far, I try to find a place where she might start asking more serious questions, so I can brace myself.

_ It'll probably be after we've eaten. _ I muse. _ We've got something in our stomachs, she's beginning to feel comfortable around me. She's not just going to drop bombs the second it starts. _

I underline parts two through four with my pen.

I start to shake. _ If I end up having to use The Boss for an answer, I guess I'll just say I like h-his confidence, and how he takes w-what he wants, and, um, I . . . _

I knot my fist in my pajamas, reeling back.

"I need a bath," I decide, tottering out of the room.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I turn on the fairy lights hung around the mirror instead of the main one on the ceiling. Soft light illuminates the stone walls and the shelves next to my gigantic bathtub. Grabbing a bottle of bubble bath and a pumice stone off the shelf, I begin to run the water and turn on the jets.

The tub makes a loud whining sound, a sign that there's not enough water in the tub yet for it to be working properly. But I don't care. It's loud enough to drown out the thoughts shooting through my head.

When the waterline is high enough for the sound to turn off and the jets to start turning the water, I step in and dump half of the bubble bath under the spout. Bubbles immediately begin to emerge, and I let my back fall against the back of the tub, pumice stone clutched in my fist.

_ Something feels weird. _ I realize. _ The water feels like it's not completely there somehow, and I'm kinda sticky, but without the glue. _

"My pajamas!" I cry, standing up.

Looking down at myself, I wince, the satin that makes up my top and bottoms clinging to my body. Sputtering, I begin to peel them off, listening as they land against the floor with a splat.

"Why does The Boss trust me with anything?" I lament.

Placing my hands over my face, I let the pumice stone land in the water. The jets immediately begin to bounce the rock around, battering it against my legs.

"How do I make taking a bath stressful?" I gripe.

Turning off the water, I fish for the stone and toss it onto the bath mat. Huffing, I finally relax in the water, trying to enjoy the jets and the bubbles that are now as high as my face.

The tub was only one in the long line of amenities I've slowly added to my life to deal with my unrelenting anxiety. While it, and everything else I've tried, seems to have failed, I sort of ended up becoming an expert of pampering in the process. Reaching for the shelf, I begin to mutter to myself.

"Okay, first it's scrub, then mask, wash and moisturize," I remember.

Popping open container after container, different textures hit my face until it feels soft and clean. I stare at the mirror fixed to the ceiling, taking deep breaths.

Silence.

"I am so fucking tense." 

Standing up in the water, I get out of the tub, not even bothering to drain the water. Anxious, I quickly dry off and flop into bed, turning my face away from the schedule I was working on.

_ I'll figure it out by the time I see her again. _ I hope. _ And I'll be less anxious too. _

Neither of those things turns out to be true.

Three days later, I stare at the woman from across the campus coffee shop, absolutely terrified. 

_ You're not even at the hard part yet genius. You don't have to _ ** _ really _ ** _ start lying until you're on the date. Just do the asking out. _I bully myself.

My feet stayed glued to the store. She's happy about something. Swinging side to side in her seat, she peers at her phone screen. The smile slips off her face when she notices me staring. Her eyes grow wide, and she glances side to side, trying to figure out if there's something behind her.

"Do you need anything?" She calls out to me.

_ Fuck. _ I start to sweat. Waving, I inch forward to her, her eyes scanning me up and down.

"Hello," I smile, the corners of my mouth feeling awkward and lopsided, "I was staring at you."

She scoots back a little in her chair, "You sure were."

I clear my throat," Excuse me, I'm just a little nervous. And anxious. There's just a lot of people around."

_ Well, that's not a lie. _I think. The coffee shop is incredibly crowded today, and the swarms of people are adding to my nerves. 

_ Hey, I'm better at this lying slash telling the truth thing than I thought. Maybe this'll be easier than I thought. _I hope.

"It's just, I've admired you for a while, and was wondering if you might want to g-go on a d-date?" I bite the bullet.

Her wariness disappears.

"A date?" She chirps, "With me?"

"Yes," I try not to recite the next part like a robot, "I thought I could take you shopping. I like that you seem to put thought into your appearance, so I thought you would enjoy a little spree."

Concern washes over her face, "Can you afford that?"

I blink, unprepared for this, "What?"

"I mean, we're all college students. Can you afford to splurge on a shopping date? Like, just a nice shirt costs about thirty bucks these days," She replies.

"Um, erm," I struggle, then remember the card The Boss gave me, "I mean, yes! I've been saving up a lot. Because I like you a lot. I was thinking we could go to the Creek City Center."

She studies me intently. I try not to start shaking, my stomach in knots. My heart starts to race.

"Okay!" She chirps, stopping my incoming heart attack.

"Oh thank the gods," I fall into the seat across from her.

She bursts out laughing, "Wow, you really wanted me to say yes, huh?"

"Absolutely," I offer her my hand, "I'm Oz by the way. And as embarrassed as I am to admit this since we're about to go out and all, I don't know your name."

"It's Elise," She introduces herself, "Pronouns she, her, hers. What about you?"

"Oz," I dap my sweaty face with napkins.

"I mean your pronouns," She giggles.

"They, them, theirs," I sputter, correcting my mistake.

"Do you need some water?" She suggests.

"No, I'm fine. When are you available to go out?" I ask.

"Well now that you ask, today actually!" Elise replies.

My heartbeat picks up again, "Today? That's pretty soon. Don't you have classes?"

"Nope! I don't have classes on Thursdays. I just really like how the people here make Italian sodas and decided to come and order one," She explains.

"Oh wow, that makes sense," I try to stay calm, "So you want to go right now?"

She shrugs, "I don't see why not."

"Okay," I warble, "I'll call a Lyft."

Thankfully, she doesn't try to fill the silence as we wait on our ride. I pull out my phone, trying to appear casual, and frantically text The Boss.

'She wants to go right now.' I message him.

'Awesome motherfucker!' He quickly replies.

"I need to use the bathroom really fast. The Lyft is arriving in front of the building that has, you know, the circle in front of it? The Conversing Circle? In front of Conversing Hall? Y-You go ahead, I'll meet you there," I stumble to my feet.

"Are you okay?" She asks.

I speed away, not bothering to answer her. Practically slamming the bathroom door open, I run the sink water and throw it onto my face. 

"You can do this, you can do this," I chant.

"That's right buddy," Another person says from a stall, "All it takes to piss is believing in yourself."

I try to tell them to fuck off, but there's not any air in my lungs. My vision starts to swim.

_ You are not going to pass out. _ I command myself, planting my hands on the rim of the sink. _ You've got to do this. For The Boss. _

Straightening my spine, I totter out of the facilities and somehow make it to the pick-up point. Elise spots me around the corner and walks up to me.

"Oz you don't have to freak out this much about a date. I'm not going to eat you alive or anything," She puts her hand on my shoulder.

"I know. I promise it's just jitters," I lie, "Look, the Lyft is pulling up."

We pile into the car and sit in silence. Elise regards me worriedly as I lean against the car door, cheek pressed against the window. I confirm our destination as the driver double checks with us.

"We can reschedule if you really feel this bad," She whispers.

_ Stop ruining this. Pull yourself together, come on. _I berate myself. 

"It really is just jitters. I over it," I sit up, "So where do you want to stop first? I was thinking we could get food."

"That sounds like a good idea. Getting some food in you is good when you're dizzy. There's a Starbucks across the street from the Creek City Center. We can get some coffee food. Coffee food is fatty, which means it's good for lightheadedness right? Like that's a thing?" She asks me.

I start to dissuade her worry again before a thought occurs to me.

Taking her out on a shopping trip while appearing to be this flustered? She'll definitely feel like she owes me then.

"Starbucks it is then," I agree.

She smiles and finally starts to relax in the car. When we pull up to the curve, I just manage to tap the button to pay the driver on my phone before Elise takes my hand and tugs me out of the car. She leans me against her shoulder, clearly afraid that I might not have enough strength to stand on my own.

"You know, I've never really gotten jitters like you seem to do, but sometimes I have trouble pulling myself together too. My chronic fatigue means I can get tired pretty easily," She offers, trying to make me feel better.

"You have chronic fatigue?" I ask.

She has such a wide smile and bright light in her eyes, it's sort of hard to imagine her as tired. 

"Yeah, I can usually only stay up for four hours tops without feeling like I need to guzzle coffee. I usually bring a thermos of it to school. So don't feel bad!" She encourages me.

A bit of guilt wells up in me before I remember just how proud The Boss will be if I pull this off.

_ And it's not like I'm not about to spend thousands of dollars on her. _ I think. _ The Boss did say to "go batshit". _

Elise doesn't let us leave the coffee shop until I've eaten two cups of oatmeal and large tea. She nibbles on some madeleines as we cross the street, stiffly holding my hand.

"Have you ever gone on a date before?" I ask.

"Only one. Why do you ask?" She replies.

"You're kinda squeezing my fingers to death, no offense," I force a laugh.

She stutters, "Oh sorry, I don't have a lot of practice holding hands. I mean I've held hands before. I've held a normal amount of hands, the kind that you would expect from a normal person."

_ Mood. _ I label her awkwardness as she loosens her grip.

"So do you shop down here a lot?" She questions me. 

I lag for a second, realizing that we'd gotten to Part 2 of the date without me even initiating it. Elise had spent most of Part 1 comforting me with food than me comforting her. It's time to pick up the ball.

"Yes," I begin my lie by lacing in some truth, "I go to Luscious, Western Elms and Anthropology a lot. For bath things and comforts."

"Gods, those places are expensive. I mostly go into Anthropology to sniff candles and look at all the things I can't afford," She says wide-eyed. 

"Yes well, I do happen to be fairly well off," I say, waiting on my chance to truly start my assignment.

"From what?" She asks.

"Inheritance," I reply, "Not all at once. My mother worries if she gives it all to me at once I'll disappear off the face of the planet. So I get big monthly "allowances" from her."

She pinches her brow, "Then why did you have to save up? That's what you said earlier.

_ Too much of the truth. _I scold myself. 

"I decided to put a little bit aside specifically for you each month, you know, instead of just decided to spend outright. That way it would be special," I fib.

"Oh," She responds noncommittally. I can't tell if she's actually bought it or not. 

"I really like my mother," I try to segway, "I don't want to make it sound like I find her annoying or anything. I mean it's because of my family that I don't have to work if I don't want to. I could go galavanting across the world at the drop of the hat with her support. Friendships like that are important."

"Look," She cuts in, "Luscious!"

The modern bath store is the first to greet us as we walk inside the mall. The newest display of brightly colored bath products swallows up most of the windows and the smell of the ingredients mixing together is enticing enough to distract anyone.

At least, that's what I assume. Elise doesn't seem like the kind of person to cut someone off.

"Let's start off there," I guide her inside.

I start touching and smelling things for myself, before easing the ones she seems to also take an interest in into her hands. She seems to drift towards the shampoo and conditioner bars for the novelty of having something that's usually liquid in a shape. The same goes for a couple of hair styling products. I can see her hesitate when she sees the price tag, but when I make it clear that I'm buying quite a few things for myself already, she relaxes about me paying the bill that I make sure she knows is going to be quite big whether she helps or not.

The tiny bags in our hands start to get bigger as I remember her saying how she liked the candles in Anthropology, and I seek them out. Seeing her fall into step with the plan eases me up, and I get to talking about friendship again. It's in vague terms not to arise suspicion and spread out between stories, but with how happy she seems to be about having company, it's honestly not that hard.

Candles grow into leather journals from Papyruses and makeup from Sephos-Zipporah as she tests silver eyeliner on me, grinning at my reflection.

"You have such pretty eyes Oz. You've never paired eyeliner with it?" She asks.

"I mostly just stick with eyeshadow," I respond.

"Does it make you feel confident?" She asks, "You seem to have a bit of anxiety. Maybe we can help you find something in here that makes you feel a bit more relaxed."

I forget what I was going to say. I thought that she forgot the beginning of the date.

"I'm not saying material things get rid of stress or anything. But they can help a little bit, just as tiny pick me ups. Do they sell the eyeshadow you like here?" She glances around.

"Let's stop talking about me," I scramble to get back on track, "Let's talk about you some more."

"We've talked about me a lot," She disagrees, "Let's talk about Oz. Maybe that's why you were so tense earlier. Because you need to vent a little bit?"

I start to brush her off, but she adds:

"It's the least I can do since you've done all this for me."

I bite my lip. Despite not finishing Part 3, she already seems to feel like she owes me. Maybe stopping to unload wouldn't be so bad. I've already reached today's goal.

Elise's smile is so wide and encouraging too. Maybe I wouldn't just get to vent. Maybe she'd have something comforting to say back. Telling her about what I had going behind enough of a smokescreen that it wouldn't get back to The Boss was originally part of the plan.

I open my mouth as my heart pounds.


	4. Damien LaVey

I hate it when it feels like nothing is happening. I don’t have extra fucking time to waste.

I run my fingers through my badass wig, trying not to check my phone for the hundredth time. Staring at stuff only makes it take longer to work. At least, that’s what it feels like. Don’t wait for a pot to start boiling or what fucking ever.

Oz hasn’t reported in for the day, which is weird. My favorite twink and his shadow bros call more that my God damned fathers.

“Man, fuck this!” I jump from my seat, cracking my knuckles.

“I’m not gunna just sit around here all fucking day. I got shit to do! Oz is great, everything is going fine.”

Flipping my hair, I turn around and slam my fist against the glass window. It doesn’t shatter — that’d be some weak shit — but it does shudder.

“That’s right, shake in the presence of my glory.”

I came into work this morning in my favorite cheap ass crop top and a thousand dollar suit because I can. My secretary had fixed me with an exasperated look, but said nothing, because I’m Damien LaVey and I can do what I want. 

Everyone who thinks different gets slided **real** fast. When the paparazzi tried to spin a headline out of me during highschool when I first started publicly wearing drag, sprinkling in a bunch of homophobic shit about ‘how am I supposed to be strong enough to take on my fathers’ empire?’ I show the photographer just how fucking strong I am with my fucking fist. When I first started working and all the saggy-ass allies the LaVeys built over the years questioned how I was supposed to be successful with such a public image, I shoved all the boring ass numbers and graphs in their face. If I want to make my dads proud and stay loud and rude and dress however I want, that’s what’s going to happen. 

_ I’m Damien LaVey bitches! _I think, using my tail to carve a heart around my reflection.

I back in the aftermath of my little pep talk, staring into my own eyes. The anxiety that kept me sitting in my seat like a chode ebbs slightly, but it’s still there.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be worried if this wasn’t so important,” I muse aloud.

Immediately, I feel an impulse to take back the thought, even though the only witness to it is me. Caring about people is dope. The fact that I still feel an instinct to shy away from that is so stupid. And it’s what got me into this entire mess in the first place.

“I wish de Lioncourt wasn’t so hard to pin down. He’s being as stupid as I used to be,” I straighten my back, and pop my neck, “All that bullshit he used to spew about not wanting to be mainstream and he’s still acting like a common fuckwad.”

In the place of anxiety, irritation begins to swell up in my chest. A growl forces its way out of my mouth, and I read for one of the dozens of pillows placed on the pedestals around the room. I dig my fingers into it and hurl it harmlessly to the floor, listening to it squeak as it bounces. 

_ ‘Finding harmless outlets for your anger is key to living a healthier lifestyle!’ _Norah The Fairy Therapist’s advice echoes through my head.

I throw a few more pillows, but unlike most of the time, it barely works. 

“It’s just like, it’s not like some guy wasting my time, this is Liam!” I yell at no one, “He’s my only old friend besides Oz I have left! Like, fuck!”

I ball up my fists.

“I’m going to have to take . . . ** _extreme measures_ **!”

I stomp out of my office to the other end of the hall. Slamming my fingers against the right combination on the keypad, I rip the door open the rest of the way as it unlocks and begins to open up automatically. Shoving it closed behind me, I kick one of the padded walls and face the materials inside.

A sloppy pile of baskets, ribbons, and miscellaneous gifts litter the middle of the room. Their superior brothers and sisters sit lined up against the wall, organized in to fine ass fucking gift backets.

_ ‘Try channeling that energy into something you’re good at!’ _The memory of Norah’s voice echoes. 

Dropping onto my ass, I start stuffing a basket, only to toss it aside when I accidentally force my fist out through the bottom. Something about actually breaking something manages to calm me down, and in a couple of minutes my hands are more steady. The ability to concentrate on the task at hand slowly solidifies.

Making “welcome back into my life” baskets for Liam is so hard. Mostly because I haven’t seen him in forever so I don’t know if he likes the same stuff, but also because Oz recommended that I should “start with something you’d enjoy, anyone would be happy to get that”. Which abosolutely sounds right because my taste is fucking kosher, but Liam’s always been a stick in the mud, so he still might end up disappointed.

In the end, I end up with with a seran wrapped present stuffed to the guts with novelty knives, matches, music that sounds like it was made to torture dogs and some art noveu stuff I dug out of the museum dumpster downtown. I try to pick it up and put it with the others, but the seran wrap clings to my hands.

_ Wait. _ I stop and think. _ Is seran wrap the clear shit used to wrap up gift baskets? Or is that something else? Is is supposed to feel like this? _

Scowling, I struggle to rip a hand away from my creation so I can text Oz. They’d know the answer. And it’s a good excuse to check in on how things are going without being too obsessed about it. 

My phone beeps. I smirk. It’s almost as if Oz knows what I’m thinking.

When I glance at the screen though, it’s not the text update from Oz. It’s a news blip. I roll my eyes and start to swipe it away, when a name catches my eye.

De Lioncourt.

“Liam?” I shout aloud, “What are you on the news?”

Tapping on the notification, my surprise is quickly replaced with dread. The de Lioncourt on the phone isn’t Liam.

“Virgil?” I squint, “What’s that asshole doing out of Europe?”

* * *

**Gentleman Adventurer Virgil de Lioncourt Visits Salt**

**By: John Doe**

“Once I heard about the beautiful sights the state has to offer, I just couldn’t stay away.”

Spotted at the Salt City Airport, Virgil de Lioncourt of world venturing fame immediately sent waves through social media as fans started to recognize him. Fresh off the last season of his Netflix show Expedition: Underworld, which chronicled the adventures of Mr. de Lioncourt as he investigated thought-to-be abandoned corners of the globe that had been resettled by everyone from forgotten tribes to secret markets, the world assumed he would be taking a long break.

Reappearing in Salt City, miles away from his family home in Europe was the last of anyone’s expectations. After cornering him for an interview, he had this to say:

“Well you know after working so hard on Expedition: Underworld, I’ve been looking for a place to put my feet up,” He began.

“In Salt?” Your favorite reporter pressed, “Why here when you already have a sprawling manor across the sea. Perhaps you’re here for a lady friend?”

He chuckled, “Oh, no lady could compare to the beauty of Salt.”

* * *

“Oh give me a fucking break,” I tear my eyes away from the screen, “Of course he would say some pompous corny bull. ‘No lady could compare’. Eat my fat red ass.”

I lift my glasses off the collar of my crop top with my tail, glancing up to the side in thought. I stopped so many times while making the basket for Liam to scratch my head that my wig fell off, letting my braid rest against my back. I ignore the impulse to fiddle with it, not wanting to mess up my hair for Liam’s stupid brother.

  


_ I don’t buy his stupid “here for the scenery” excuse for a second. A twenty-one year old guy with fame, too much money to spend in a lifetime from his stupid inheritance, and a chest that broad choosing to relax here? You can barely get alcohol in Salt, let alone any weed. Not that Virgil is cool enough to do shots. I bet he drinks cognac or some shit. He looks like it. And if he tried weed he’d probably start choking. _

I mull it over before the obvious hits me.

_ He’s here to see Liam. _I realize.

That had to be it. After years of not talking to him, Virgil must’ve grown a pair and decided to take a chance on reconnecting with his brother again. The probability that Liam would actually talk to him is probably lower than the chance I start using All-In-1 shampoo again, but it makes more sense than someone choosing to come to Salt to kick back.

I jump to my feet, “He’s going to scare off Liam!”

Based off the few times Liam confided in me in school, Liam would rather die before seeing any of his family members again. They’d tossed him to the wayside when he didn’t meet their standards, his brother just watched, and they hadn’t been there when our friends had died. The minute Liam caught wind of his brother being in the city, he’d disappear.

“All this work trying to figure out how to be friends with him again is going to be for nothing! I’ve had to be patient and shit,” I growl, “ Hell no! “

I have to figure out some way to intercept him and tell him to fuck off before he destorys everything I’ve worked for. I can’t let Liam just vanish from my life completely. 

Just as I swing open the door, the irony of my thought process striking me. 

_ I’m about to tell Liam’s brother who wants to worm his way back into Liam’s life to fuck off, just so I can worm my way back into Liam’s life. Is that . . . right? _

I swallow, pinching the bridge of my nose. Usually I wouldn’t care, but this was some psychological junk and I’ve been trying to be better about that since everyone died. The entire reason why I was trying to get Liam back was because I’m trying to build a support system again. 

“ . . . And I miss him as a friend,” I admit under my breath, blushing. Feelings are healthy and whatever but that doesn’t mean I’m going to start shouting mushy shit at the top of my lungs. 

“Maybe I should give him a chance?” I muse, “I mean, if it sounds like he’s still as much of a chode as Liam described I’m going to kick his ass. But on the small chance that he could be a part of Liam’s support system and make him feel more supported . . .”

I straighten my back as I make my decision. Flipping my sunglasses onto my face, I dile the special line to the front desk. The receptionist doesn’t question my odd request, and by the time I’ve gotten down to the first floor, she’s gotten back to me with good news.

“Great,” I continue talking to myself, “That was my only fucking plan besides just grabbing him off the street.”

As much as I want to motorbike down to the hotel, having someone chauffeur me in Nancy looks more official. Sighing, walk out the front doors and punch the podium next to the street. Someone rushes over, and soon I’m cruising downtown.

The driver asks me how I’m doing, but I don’t answer. I’m too busy thinking about how I’m going to convince this chode to let me take the lead. 

_ I can’t intimidate him. The guy had a whole show about poking around where he doesn’t belong. He’s clearly not a coward. _ I think, clenching my jaw. _ Maybe I can just explain what’s going on? That sounds like the sort of lame thing that would work. _

I can’t help but wish there was a justified reason to rough him up a little. Like yeah, it’s important for Liam to have a support system but the memory of Virgil sounds so fucking lame, finding an excuse to get a running start and slam my body into his teeth first is so fucking tempting.

“Sir, we’re here,” The chauffeur alerts me.

I dig into my pockets and shove a wad of cash into his lap as a tip. I strut inside past the group of paparazzi crowding around up front before they can see me, just in time to see Virgil de Lioncourt checking in at the front desk.

He looks kind of like a warped reflection of Liam. The two brothers both possess the same set of thick eyelashes, intense eyes, sharp cheek bones and ridiculous tallness, but Virgil is much broader, with wide shoulders, huge fucking hands, wild whispy curls and a Superman chin. His eyebrows are incredibly bushy, and he lets the thick dark hair Liam insisted on keeping tied in a bun fall into his face. He sports a short beard a little past his chin, and the curly nature of his hair makes it look thicker than it already is.

It makes me fucking annoyed. Liam’s been kinda letting himself fall apart lately and his brother planned on barging in, looking all coiffed and successful and shit. The only thing I can really poke fun at is how he’s kinda pale. I think of Oz and smirk. 

_ Yeah you piece of shit! You can’t be dark and handsome like Oz! And I mean that in a non fetishistic way. _ I smirk.

“Ah! Mr. LaVey!”

Virgil’s deep voice breaks me out of my trance. Walking up to me, he lifts his hands and smacks my shoulder. I stumble forward, trying not to wheeze in surprise.

“I’m so flattered that your company volunteered to accommodate my stay here at this nice hotel! And so quickly too. I just put my feet on the ground a couple of hours ago and I didn’t really have any things in order. This trip was rather sudden, you see,” He starts to explain.

“Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt him, trying not to make it obvious he knocked the wind out of me, “I guessed from your lack of bags in the photo. We need to talk.”

The soft expression on his face shifts. An incredibly intense gleam appears in his eyes. His wild hair suddenly makes him just a bit unhinged, though he doesn’t smile or scowl, as if trying to stay unreadable despite his obvious intensity. He clasps his hands against my shoulders, hunching over me as he speaks without the casual lilt to his voice.

“Have you found something odd? Did you get wrapped up in one of the state cults? I figured you wanted to offer me some sort of brand deal, knowing who you are, but this sounds much better. Tell me everything,” He demands.

I didn’t realize he was talking in a “press voice” until he got up in his my, but he sounds like an entirely different person now. His voice was deep before, but the way he sounds now is almost uncanny. If his face wasn’t so intense I would assume he’s faking it. There’s a quiet, whispery quality to it that makes me listen.

I blink hard and break out of the trance. I shove him back towards one of the chairs in the lobby. He catches himself, stumbling.

“Yo, ** _chill_**,” I flex my knuckles, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about but I’m here about Liam.”

Whatever the fuck mood he’s in melts away. His brow pinches as his intensity disappears. I watch his hands untense as he speaks again, his voice still uncannily deep as he forgets to switch back to the practiced fake ass tone he greeted me in.

“You know my brother?” He asks.

“Obviously,” I grab his sleeve, “Let’s find a God damn room so you don’t blurt his business all over the place.”

It feels nice to pull him behind me after the shoulder thing. It’s not like I’m scrawny. He just caught me by surprise the first time. I want him to know I can kick his ass if I want.

I find an empty conference room and shove him inside, not bothering to worry about someone walking in on us. It’s late, and who really has the balls to stumble upon Damien LaVey and scold him about booking before hand.

“I’m one of his old classmates. You know, one of the ones who aren’t dead. I’m sure you heard about that whole thing. Not that you bothered to show up,” I shove my finger in his face.

His eyes darken, “So he’s sent you to tell me leave?”

I scowl, “No actually, but you would know that if you manage to keep up with him at all. Liam’s barely talked to anyone in a long fucking time since The Incident. He’s all depressed and shit. I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me again, but you showing up here out of the blue is guranteed to fuck that up. So you’re going to listen to me, because I know what you’re trying to do here, I know your plan is shitty, my plan is fucking great, and if you don’t get on board I’m going to dislocate your bitch ass jaw.”

I can’t read his face. Despite everything I’ve just said, his expression doesn’t change. I get ready to repeat my threat again when he finally responds, hands balling into fists.

“I know I . . . haven’t been a good brother since our parents disowned him, and you’re the best lead in this threadbare plan I came up with yesterday, so . . . I’m listening.”


	5. Virgil de Lioncourt

If Liam wasn’t already on my mind, Damien LaVey definitely would be. 

Powerful successor of the LaVey empire, and the current focus of all the press the family gets, the circumstances LaVey’s life is seeped in brings to mind countless number of personalities he could have developed: uptight and strict about the role his family brought him, pompous and overly proper about those not in his social circle, or maybe even jittery and overly obsessed with numbers, crumbling under the pressure over his head.

LaVey not only seems to swerve past all of them, but seems to make it part of his daily routine to do it as loudly as possible. 

When I had been stupid enough to let Liam slip through my fingers, I had been urged on my my parents to ignore our family’s black sheep in the pursuit of perfection, and I continued to use those high expectations to distract me as the years went by. Everywhere I walked eyes were on me. Even if I was doing something I was good at I felt a cold sweat beading on the back of my neck.

With my parents’ remains growing cold in their urns, that daily pressure is long gone. But the fact that LaVey doesn’t seem to have felt pressured once his entire time in the public eye is just so . . . strange. He’s nothing close to an A-list celebrity, the business world isn’t nearly as glamorous as Hollywood to garner enough press for that, but his antics during school managed to show up alongside the latest reality show gossip plenty of times. Every once in a while, whatever minor scandal he managed to get himself wrapped up in managed to appear in the corner of my eye, either on the news or in some tabloid. And as mother and father loomed over me, I couldn’t help but ask “How can someone just not give a fuck about anything?” over and over again. As much as I try to project intense aloofness when the press is not around, I've never been able to **_feel_** it.

Even though the parental claws that were always two seconds away from turning me into a basket case are long gone, I can’t help but silently question LaVey's boldness again as he growls at me. As he spits out his plan, teeth bared, he cranes his head to meet my eyes unabashedly, not seeming to care that I could get mad at the way he’s making his point, or that someone could walk in on us while he screams. I try to keep my face unreadable, and bare my pupils into his the way father taught me -- mostly just out of habit — but he doesn’t shy away, or become quieter like I’m used to people doing. It’s easy to forget he’s a young professional in a crop top and not a drill sergeant. 

His complete lack of concern doesn’t seem to disappear when it comes to his plans either.

“Using this young woman,” I quietly cut in. “Seems kind of dubious, don’t you think?”

LaVey narrows his eyes at me, “Why do you care?”

I frown softly, “Why wouldn’t I?”

He snorts, “It’s not as if you have a track record for giving a shit about other people.”

I press my mouth into a thin line, a hot ball of shame blooming in my throat. Letting Liam go is my greatest shame, but that doesn't mean I'm going to start falling apart in front of a stranger.

LaVey doesn't seem to be tricked as he leans in. “Cat’s got your tongue?”

_Shit. _I look away.

LaVey sighs, “Look bitch, I don’t really fucking trust you but I’ve been seeing a therapist lately about my shit, and I can’t deny that if you don’t act all shitty and toxic around him, you could be . . . healthy, or whatever. Liam might want you back in his life if he has time to think about it, and if you do it gently. But if you don’t listen to me I promise you’re going to fuck it up. I was his actual friend and he doesn’t want to talk to me. He definitely won’t want to talk to you if you show up on his doorstep.”

“How much do you know?” I ask him.

“Enough,” He looks me up and down derisively.

_ Gods, I haven’t felt this shitty since before the funeral. _I cup my Adam’s apple, trying to get rid of the heat crawling from it into my mouth. I'm not used to doing things with other people. I can do so when the situation calls for it; it's not any trouble, it's just not my default. But the points LaVey is making shows that I definitely can't go it alone if I want a chance of talking with my brother. I knew that my plan was threadbare when I left home, but I kept Liam’s reaction pushed to the back of my mind, knowing that if I focused too much on how disgusted he would be to see me the buzz from the cognac would wear off and I’d lose my nerve. 

A fan had jokingly @ed me in the Expedition: Underworld tags on Instagram about my “twinky long lost look alike lol”. When I checked the photo they posted and saw a blurry image of Liam sitting in a cafe, I almost had a heart attack. The geotag for Salt had me stumbling towards the door before I could even really think about it, strunken by a desire to see him again like how nostalgia slams into people like a freight train on a lazy summer afternoon.

The picture itself was terrible. Liam was reduced to a purple blur, and his glasses looked like flashes of light. But the distinctive family scowl I’d seen father flash when anything was a toe out of line and the mop of thick, dark hair mother toted as her best feature were undeniably in front of me again, years after their deaths. Liam has always taken after mother’s thin frame, but something about the bags under his eyes made him look gaunt, and years of possible hypotheticals flooded into my head. Worry sprung me to my feet.

Up until that point, when I thought about finding him again, it always ended up feeling more like a thought experiment than an actual possibility. I haven’t seen him in so long, and paired with the stress of being a de Lioncourt, it was so hard to remember what he was like as a person that it was difficult to picture what an interaction with him would even be like. In a way he was almost unreal.

But that picture was **undeniably** real. It showed Liam in motion — silently dead-eyeing the pastry in front of him and swirling his coffee around like he was putting off drinking it as long as possible. Memories of my brother’s particularness came back with stark clarity. The memories weren’t particularly endearing, but I was already tipsy enough that by the time I got outside to call a taxi, I was crying. I don’t consider myself a man whose insecure about his masculinity, but by the time I passed out in the cabbie’s car, woke up and stumbled towards the airport entrance, I felt mortified.

_ And now I get to feel like shit. _I think as I rub my temple. Putting on a face for the press kept me from having to think when I landed in Salt, but now there’s nothing to distract me. I'm faced with the reality that I haven't done anything to develop any real plan in the hours I spent in transit. Not only do I have to work with LaVey, I have to default to his plan for the time being.

“What makes this woman you’re using to get close to him different than you or I? Liam won’t talk to me, he won’t talk to you, what makes her different?” I ask.

“Ms. Whoever is kind of just a common bitch. I’m pretty sure Liam is fucking ghosting me because I remind him of our old group of friends that are mostly dead, and you’ll remind him of his shitty home life. This chick doesn’t remind him of anything, he just met her,” he explains. “It’s a clean slate.”

“I understand how getting her to help us reconnect with him when she seems to be the only person whose talking to him seems reasonable, but what happens when your assistant reveals that they had ulterior motives in befriending her, and that all the stuff you’ve bought for her doesn’t make her feel as if she has to return the favor?” I point out.

He crosses his arms, “I trust Oz’s intel about what she’s like. They told me she looked all dressed up and got all excited about getting to hang out with Liam. Shopping is basically clothes and talking rolled together. If you give people what they like, they’re less likely to get all pissy if you ask for something.”

I think about how LaVey just pulled me into a room to scream at me without knowing how I’d react and furrow my brow. Despite him countering my questions, I can't help but feel an inkling of doubt about his character assessment abilities, and I can't parse exactly how comfortable I am with using the woman LaVey mentioned.

A desperate part of me knits together a half baked excuse. _I'm not even using her really. LaVey is the one orchestrating this. And why should I care about the morality of him doing this? I'm not his conscience. As long as I see Liam he can do whatever he wants. _

Out of my jet lag and burgeoning hangover, another train of thought counters the first. It's not as detailed, but it's equally as hard-hitting. _I sound like father._

LaVey snaps his fingers, “Hey Batman, what are you brooding about? Fix your fucking face, it’s a good plan.”

“I’d like to meet her,” I say. All of this is coming at me too fast. I need to more information and time to think.

“You can’t meet her. Oz is still on the date. We haven’t even gotten past the part where she feels like owes Oz yet.” He turns to check his phone, “Who should’ve gotten back to be now, they’re usually not this** _oh shit_**.”

LaVey takes a step back from me and frantically unlocks his phone. His thumb races across the screen as he scrolls through old messages. 

“What’s wrong?” I try to get a look.

“Oz has been sending me messages but I was too busy screaming at your dumb ass to hear them. One of them is a Code Orange, which means they’re in the fucking hospital,” He grits his teeth, “They tried to text me updates but none of them makes sense obviously.”

“Why Code Orange?” I question.

“It means they’ve had an anxiety attack,” He glares at me. “Come on, we’ve got to go. I hope it’s not bad. Shit shit shit.”

“Why am I coming?” I let him grab my sleeve.

“I’m not leaving you to waddle around gods damned Salt drawing attention to yourself while I handle this,” Damien demands.

He yanks me out of the room and through the lobby. Kicking open the front doors, he plants his hand in the middle of the closest paparazzi’s face and shoved them out of the way. The man’s surprised flailing helps to part the crowd, and the second we’re on the other side LaVey throws me in his car.

Barking orders to the driver, LaVey fishes around in a box at our feet, before pulling out a baggy hoodie.

“Put this on,” he demands. “I don’t want your face drawing anymore attention. This is about Oz now. They’ve been working for me for way too long for the attention to be taken off of them for you. They may be kind of shy and think they’re not worthy of fuss, which means they won’t say anything if you draw a crowd, but I will.”

I make a note of his little monologue and the faint blush spreading across his nose. Shrugging on the hoodie, I lean back and listen to LaVery curse under his breath for the rest of the ride.

Once the nurse at the front desk gives us Oz’s room number, LaVey is off to the races. I follow him with long strides, pulling the tip of my hoodie over my face. He rounds a corner and by the time I manage to catch up, the door to the right room is being slammed shut, LaVey’s tail disappearing in a blink.

A couple of people startled by the boom shoot the room a dirty look. LaVey smashes his face against the glass, his breath fogging it up as he booms:

_ “FUCK OFF!” _

Patients and people who were casually standing by the room shift away, leaving a single woman sitting in a chair nearby. Based off of what LaVey told me, I can only think of one other person who would be here.

“Liam’s friend came with Oz to the hospital?” I mutter.

Just as easily as I felt guilt earlier, I now feel jealous. Based off of what LaVey told me, she and Liam didn’t seem to have hung out much, but that was still more than no time-- which is all I have to speak for with my brother. 

_Make a decision. _I scold myself. _Are you indifferent as long as you get to see Liam? Are you worried about the dubiousness? N__ow you’re jealous?_

My silent reasoning doesn’t stop my imagination from going wild. From an objective point, the woman was very beautiful. She had plush lips, big eyes and glowing skin that was brought out by the gold jewelry covering her body. In my mind’s eye, I saw Liam starting to flirt with her, and her spending more time with him than I ever did when he and I were children. 

_ What if this plan doesn’t work? _ My insecurity whispers. _ What if I showed up in this city only to be told to go screw myself just in time for him to show me just how much time he wants to spend time with anyone else but me? _

“Shut up,” I shout out loud.

She flinches, eyes going wide as she sees me for the first time.

“I’m sorry?” She stutters.

I grimace. “No, it’s not --, sorry, I apologize.”

I begin to move closer when my foot crinkles against something. Looking down, I see a bunch of scattered shopping bags. 

_ This must be from her time with Oz. _

I pretend to be surprised, “Is there a storefront nearby?”

She puts her face in her hands, “No, this is from my date. I feel so dumb bringing them into a hospital but the person I was with collapsed really suddenly and there wasn’t any time to bring them home first.”

I sit down beside her, “What happened?”

“They had a panic attack," she explains. "By the time we got here they seemed better so I don’t think it’s too serious.”

“Hmm,” I tilt my head back.

“What is it?” She asks.

I don’t answer, peering into her face. Our two chairs are connected in a single wooden unit, so it’s easy to stare into her eyes. I try to see if there’s anything hidden there. There’s a chance that she’s lying. The idea of bringing purchases to a hospital to silently flex on the other people there sounds as outlandish as it is heinous, but I’ve traveled around enough to meet people shameless enough to do it.

“Do you blink?” She interrupts me.

I’m broken out of my study, “Excuse me?”

“No offense sir but you’re acting kind of intense for a stranger that just sat down next to me. Can you maybe . . .”

She trails off, lifting her hand in front of her eyes so she can’t see mine. She lets it linger for a second before peering under her palm.

“Kind of better,” She smiles.

She forces a laugh and glances to the side, “I’m joking, haha.”

_ She seems harmless. _I think.

“I apologize,” I force myself to relax, going from a stiff back to hunched over in my seat, “Today’s been kind of stressful. I’m a bit out of it.”

I soften my voice and offer my hand. She perks up and takes it, my hand eclipsing her’s as we shake.

“I’m Elise,” She introduces herself.

I stop myself from telling her my own name on the off chance she mentions our conversation to Liam.

“I’m sorry your date got cut short,” I say.

“Me too,” She sighs, “I’ve been trying to socialize more. It was nice to be hanging out and having a nice conversation.”

Elise quickly backpedals. “Not that Oz’s mental health isn’t important. That’s why I called an ambulance and I’m waiting out here.”

“You can always redo it. I understand the appeal of shopping. I’ve been to plenty of bazaars in my life,” I mention.

“Like the Middle Eastern kind?” Her eyes light up, “When?”

“A bunch of times actually,” I remark, “I’ve always loved traveling, ever since I was a child. Not to sound pretentious, but you don’t realize how many of the things you assume are part of everyone’s life are actually just the result of where you first grow up until you leave your homeland. The Middle East was one of the first new places I fell in love with. Though I imagine the murder made my first impression of the place a bit livelier than most.”

_ “The what?” _ She leans closer.

I glance at the door to Oz’s room. It seems like LaVey might be a while, and this is my chance to know more about the woman Liam's been hanging out with. I won't have to worry about my conflicting emotions getting in the way; telling stories has always given me tunnel vision, and whatever else I might've been thinking about slips away. I've been able to make money off of entertaining people and traveling around for a reason.

“I guess we have time for a brief story.”

“There are plenty of staples of culture to be found among our neighbors across the sea: intelligent men and women, landmarks with long cultural histories, museums, food, and of course, rich people hoping to drain the surrounding area dry until the local economy is wrecked and they can proclaim that foreign places are shitholes before toddling back home with all their money. This was the sight that greeted me when I first touched the ground in Cairo. Egypt is as much a modern city as any other in the 21st century, but there was something hyper-streamlined about one particular set of advertisements plastering the pick up area at the airport as I waited for a taxi. They looked like posters you would see in the _ especially _wealthy parts of Silicon Valley -- extremely minimalist but overwhelming at the same time. When I was growing up under my parents’ watch, they were insistent about how much exposure mattered to a thriving business, and that most people saw over 5,000 ads a day but barely remembered any of them, which was why it was so important that any I created be the few that stuck in people’s minds. It felt like I was seeing those 5,000 daily ads, only in the span of five minutes with perfect recall. The background to this company’s logo was a searing white that managed to stay clean despite exposure to the elements, which made it impossible to forget.

“When I mentioned them to my driver, he rolled his eyes and said he couldn’t imagine anyone buying from them. Their localization left a lot to be desired. It was kind of like when Walmart first tried to spread into Germany, and they kept the greeters that we’re used to in the States only to find that the natives found people perpetually smiling at them creepy. The company had a thousand instances like this, but seemed pretty relentless about not giving up.

“Once he had driven me far enough that the advertisements started to disappear, it was easy to zone out and take in the beauty of Egypt. I didn’t notice we arrived at my hotel until the driver asked for his payment.

“I was staying at a small family run inn because I’m a pretentious rich kid that likes authentic experiences ---”

“Aw, don’t say that,” Elise interrupts, “I don’t think you’re pretentious.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’ve known me for a couple of minutes.”

She gestures. “And you’re already telling me part of your life’s story. Obviously we’re getting to know each other very well.”

I snort, “Well at the time, I ended up getting to know a padlock pretty well because the minute I got to my room I found that it had been pretty thoroughly rummaged through.”

Elise makes an ‘okay’ gesture, “Nice lead-in.”

A grin bursts across my face, “You’re easy to please aren’t you?”

She shrugs, “I like stories.”

“The window was wide open, the bed was pushed askew from the wall and both of the dressers had their little doors swung out. It seemed like someone had been trying to rob in the brief time my hosts had fixed it up and the next guest came, but without a guest, what was there to rob? My confusion over the culprit’s thought process left me scratching my head as the owner’s daughter profusely apologized and offered me a free night. The new deal came along with a padlock as the family failed a report with the police. I fixed up the room myself before the maid they called managed to arrive, hoping to find some sort of clue in the process, but I had no such luck.

“Later when I was laying in bed at night, I heard a shuffling from across the room. For the first time I noticed the rather modest looking closet. Slowly, I approached and opened the door.

“A woman stowed away inside immediately burst into tears. She confided in me that she was hiding from her stepfather because her mother and brother had recently died, and she suspected her stepfather had killed them.”

“Holy shit,” Elise interrupts.

“She had panicked and started trying to find somewhere outside of her family’s house to hide, but every time she came up with an idea, it was dashed by remembering her stepfather’s connections. He was in an extremely high position within the company’s whose advertisements I’d seen when I first arrived. He had only been in the country for three months, but during that time he had thoroughly bewitched the woman’s mother and her brother.”

“Literally?” Elise asks.

“No, I mean the turn of phrase. The man definitely wasn’t magic. If he had been, my stowaway would’ve been just as enamored with him as the rest of her family was. But the speed at which his relationship progressed with her mother left her suspicious. A little after they were wed, her mother was found dead, and at the moment I found her in the closet, her brother had died a few hours earlier. She ran from home in tears and stumbled into my room because it looked easy to get in from the outside. After trying to find a place to stowaway she settled on the closet.”

“Why didn’t she just call the police?” Elise asks.

“The woman was known around as mentally ill. Not severely so, but enough that she still lived with her mother as an adult. Her neighbors saw her as invalid, and had dismissed her complaints to them before. She doubted the police would believe her,” I explain.

“Why did you?” Elise asks me.

I pause. “I don’t know. I guess it was just easy for me to picture a situation where the parent looking after someone didn’t want their child’s best interests at heart. It didn’t seem that far fetched. There was already a person in my closet watching me sleep. 

“It was also the dead of the night and there’s something about how dark everything gets that makes it easier to believe anything. Also my jet lag was kicking my ass, so maybe I was just loopier than usual.

“Anyway, being a _ pretentious rich kid_,” I start up again, “I was sure I could make my way over to her house and fix this all somehow. I was convinced that the woman was telling the truth, or at least what she genuinely thought was the truth, but I wasn’t prepared to fight her stepfather or anything. I guess I thought I could intimidate him into . . . something? I was more caught up in the idea of adventure than details. Besides, I’m a vampire. It wasn’t like I was defenseless.”

“Oh I like where this is going,” She starts out sarcastic, only to falter, “Confident, uh, well-funded young enterpriser?”

“You’re really held up on this name calling thing aren’t you?” I say. “You know I’m joking.”

“Even when you’re joking it’s not healthy to be constantly insulting yourself. When my clinical depression was worse I used to do that casually all the time, until I realized that I was slowly starting to believe the things I joked about," she remarks.

A silence stretches between the two of us. I stare at her in surprise, and her eyes widen as her common sense catches up to her.

“Was that a little too forward?” Elise bites her lip. “Telling a stranger that.”

“Some might say that, yes. You are incredibly open for someone who just met me,” I comment, not sure how to react.

She looks down at her feet, “Sorry, I won’t comment anymore.”

I want to tell her that it’s fine. It’s not like I’m mad that she’s mentally ill. But just because I want her to stop feeling embarrassed doesn’t mean I suddenly know what to say. The window to respond before the silence got awkward has passed, and the knowledge that things were just going to get worse the longer one of us takes to say something makes me hurry back into the story.

“So I popped open my suitcase and put on the best things I brought with me on the trip. I convinced the woman to tell me where she lived, and that I’d come back with an update before the sun rose about how things were. 

“The estate she lived on was rather large, with more than a couple of stragglers out front. I asked them what they were doing there and they told me they had been invited to squat there by the man of the house. They were friendly enough and didn’t have much else to say besides that, so I continued to the front door. It was wide open.

“I reached my arm inside and knocked on the door as it rested against the wall. The echo of my knuckles resounded through the house, but no one came. Eventually I stepped fully inside past the precipice, wondering what happened in the time it took me to get there.

“Past the foyer, the entry hallway glittered with treasures. Tiny automatons that functioned without batteries, pretty preserved specimens in display cases I couldn’t put a name to and antique jewelry on tiny stands. They all looked like things that had been in the house for a while. I tried to find something new that the stepfather would’ve brought in out of the country, but couldn’t find anything. The only thing the house seemed to hold so far were things that belonged to the family he married into.

“I like trinkets, and couldn’t force myself to leave the hallway once I reached the end of it. I was entranced by what looked like an ornate version of that game where you try to knock over the other player’s fighter by piloting your own with your thumbs? I can’t remember what it’s called. By the time I looked up, an enraged looking man with his toupe sliding off was screaming at me with a syringe in his hand about his step daughter. Startled, I shoved him and sent him flying into the kitchen. Watching him pass out, it occured to me that this was enough to call the police, and while we were both apprehended, a cursory look at the needle in his hand showed he was in possession of some substances that definitely weren’t legal. 

“A much broader sweep of the house was done, and his office revealed some fairly desperate notes about getting rid of his wealthy step family as a way out. The company he worked for had been in a downward decline about a month after they touched ground in Egypt, and as his grandiose ideas for getting it out of red got more and more expensive, it became obvious that the whole thing was going under. He planned to gain the family’s money by marrying in and then getting rid of everyone who had a claim on the finances so he would be the sole person in control of them. Basically a safety net for himself when the company he worked at declared bankruptcy. He invited the squatters to stay with them in exchange for them getting him a deadly concoction that he could inject and kill his family with through a thin needle, leaving little trace about how they got so many toxins in their bodies.

“When his step-daughter left so quickly after her brother died, he became paranoid about her figuring out his plan and started ripping up the house in a panic. With all of the things he did, the woman speaking on my behalf and you know, me being a ‘confident well-funded young enterpriser’ I got out of legal trouble pretty quickly.”

I finish my story, watching for my small audience’s reaction. Her eyes are shining with unasked questions, but she doesn’t say anything. 

“I don’t think a moment of early awkwardness should cut our conversation short,” I clear my throat.

“Well, I guess I want to ask if you really enjoyed that? When you started your story you seemed really into it, but now you sound sort of disappointed?” Elise asks.

I rub the back of my neck, “I guess I just feel foolish about how things turned out. I got ahead of myself once I heard the call of mystery, and then for all the build up in between getting to the door, I sort of cut the whole thing short by suplexing a geriatric into some spoons. I still had a good time in Egypt. I got to visit the bazaars like I planned, but now that I’m saying this all out loud, I’m wondering how it could’ve ended if I just thought ahead a little more.”

A hesitant smirk creeps onto her face, “Come on, no one should be judged by their stupidest day.”

I burst out laughing, loud enough that it startles a small family passing by.

“What happened to your embarrassment from earlier?” I ask.

“W-Well Uncle Pennybags,” She lifts her chin to deliver her punchline, “You said you wanted to keep the conversation going.”

“Well _ I _want you two fuckers to can it, because we’ve got to take Oz back home,” LaVey interrupts.

Elise and I look up to see LaVey and who must be Oz stroll out of the room. LaVey is forcing Oz to lean on him, causing the shadow creature to tremble. There’s a flustered expression on their face that LaVey doesn’t seem to notice.

_ So it’s reciprocal. _I think, remembering LaVey’s blush in the car from earlier.

“I can take it from here sir,” Elise offers, “I was surprised that Oz wanted to contact you when we got here. If you need to go back to work, I’m sure they can tell me their address and I can take them. Right Oz?”

LaVey cuts Oz off before they can say anything.

“Oz is my employee. Looking after them is my responsibility. We’ll take them home together. Besides, based off of what’s Oz told me, I have a fucking offer of a lifetime for you Elise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gods Virgil, what makes you so special that almost get twice as many words as everyone else? Huh? HUH?
> 
> Comments please! Seriously this is a super important chapter. I need to know how I did.


	6. A Deal - Elise of Salt

Salt is a pretty big city, but it’s always been easy to see if you’re still near it’s borders or not due to the giant mountain range framing it. So as Damien’s driver starts going over more and more hills, I start glancing between the street signs and the peaks in the not-so-far distance.

“Um, excuse me, but are we leaving the city?” I ask nervously.

“A bit. Not far though,” Damien replies curtly.

Oz is fully leaning on his body, a huge flush on their face. Damien refused to stop supporting his employee, even in the car, so Oz was half in his lap with his face pressed to Damien’s chest. I shot him a sympathetic smile. Oz blurted out to me on our date how they were dealing with lingering feelings for their boss, which was sort of an odd thing to bring up on a date. But I did tell them to vent, and it wasn’t like we were a couple or anything.

Besides, getting all their feelings out had sent them in a tizzy strong enough to need an ambulance, so it wasn’t exactly like I could scold them.

_ I can’t believe someone could get that worked up over their feelings for someone. Well, I’ve never been in a long term relationship before, so I wouldn’t exactly know. Mental illness can feel pretty intense anyways. I shouldn’t judge. _

Everyone in the car is looking at me, I notice. Not at the same time -- Damien is mainly focused on Oz, Oz is trying to look like they’re not focusing on Damien, and the man from the hospital is fiddling with some sort of trinket he pulled out of his pocket -- but their eyes all make their way to me eventually. My fingers dig into my arms as I press my back into the seat, wishing there was a little more distance between my seat and everyone else’s.

_ Speaking of intense. _I furrow my brow as my own mental problems creep up on me.

I swallow thickly as paranoia seizes my body. For the first time it hits me that I’m traveling around with people I don’t exactly know well. Oz and I were on the most familiar terms, and I literally met them today. They could chop me into little pieces and throw me in a ditch.

I feel a bit of a headache starts in the back of my head as my body shudders.

_ Am I switching? Come on, don’t switch right now. I don’t want to get disoriented and have to figure my traits out in front of these strangers. _

“Are you okay?” The hospital man rumbles, leaning towards me.

I try not to make it obvious as I lean away. He’s a certified giant; I barely come up to his chest. It was charming back in the hospital when we were in public surrounded by witnesses, but in this enclosed space it feels more intimidating.

“Yes,” I force a smile, “It’s just, I’m southern so I’m not quite used to all these hills. Where I’m from it’s mostly plains.”

“I thought I heard a twang in your voice,” He remarks.

I try to casually check my backpack for mace as my other hand pinched as the leather seat. 

_ Could I tear a strip off and use it to choke one of them out if they pounce at me? _I think, heart racing.

I begin to take deep breaths when my fingers close around the black tube of mace father gave me. Running my thumb up and down the plastic seam of the casing, I try to catch my reflection off of something in the car. 

_ I hope that I don’t look as manic as I feel. _I think.

When I finally spot myself in the reflective door handle, I realize I’m not. My eyes are a little wider than usual, but the sweat I could’ve sworn running down my next wasn’t there.

The distinction between thoughts and reality interrupts my racing mind with stab of embarrassment.

_ You’re having this entire episode completely inside your own head. Nothing of what you’re feeling is real. Do you really think these two men are doing to kill you while bringing someone they know back home from the hospital? _I scold myself.

An old memory of a past therapist telling me to be kind to myself plays through my head, but on top of the quiet embarrassment that’s just cropped up and the unreasonable paranoia that’s still racing through my mind, it’s just more noise. Involuntarily, I start to get up to pace, but remember I’m in a car.

“Do you need to go to the fucking bathroom or something?” Damien frowns at me.

“No,” I cross my arms, leaning in my seat.

_ Relax, relax, relax. _ I chant inside my head. _ Yeah I barely know anyone here, but Oz seems nice. They wouldn’t be friends with crazy people, right? _

I look out the window, taking deep breaths as the street signs begin to change. Eventually the amount of houses on the sides of the street thin out as the properties get bigger and bigger, and the sizes of the different back yards keeps homes farther apart. I let out a little gasp as I spot the newest street sign: LaVey Boulevard

_ When Oz was telling me about their boss I figured he was wealthy, but I didn’t think he would have a street named after him. Just how wealthy is he? _

I pause for a moment, thinking about getting my business license back in high school. _ Wait, is getting a street named after you really all that expensive, or does everyone just assume it is? Because my business license only cost a few hundred dollars but everyone assumes I got some big sponsorship for it or something. _

My thoughts about the rest of the people in the car turning sinister get even more dramatic than before. 

_ Just look how far apart these houses are. It’s already isolated with how much land they each get. Imagine how quiet it’ll be on this demon man’s street. If it turns out that it does take a lot of money to have a street named after you, if he is super wealthy, I beat he could afford to make everyone I know forget me. He could lock me up in his basement and no one would ever know. These are strangers. They’re strangers. Why am I in a car with strangers? _

“Shpudd,” I mutter ‘shut up’ under my breath, voice muffled by my hand as I try to cover up my frown.

“What?” Hospital Man looks up from his trinket.

“Nothing. Are we almost there yet?” I test my forehead for sweat again. It’s still dry.

“Hold your fucking horses, you’re getting chauffeured around for free. Enjoy it,” Damien answers gruffly.

I try to muffle the tapping of my feet. I still want to pace, but I obviously can’t do that here. The visuals in my head are growing more outlandish by the second, but even as I register they’re unlikelihood, they refuse to disappear. 

I look at Oz next to their boss and try to reason with my paranoia. Today has shown Oz to be one of the most anxious people I’ve ever met. And he doesn’t seem scared of Damien or this other guy at all. Based off of what they told me, Damien had enough good qualities to leave them with a hardcore case of infatuation they were still trying to get rid of. 

_ Calm down. _ I order myself again. _ You’re obviously switching or something, or maybe your PTSD is acting up again. Look at Oz. Look at their wide eyes. There can’t be anything truly sinister about them or their friends. Just calm down. _

I glance at Oz’s face, and chilling out actually does become a little easier. There’s something about their wide eyes that is distinctly Bambi-like, and the flustered expression on their face is disarmingly endearing. It really is hard to see them turning around and going “gotcha” sinisterly as their friends pounce on me.

I smile as I finally loosen up, only for a headache to take my paranoia’s place. Too many thoughts at once.

“Jesus Christ,” I sigh, “Give me a break.”

“I don’t know, I like rock gardens,” Hospital Man replies.

“Huh?” I sputter.

He points outside the window. Following his finger, I see a wide span of beautiful orange and red rocks stacked into abstract shapes and spread out formations. With all of the natural rock scenery in the state, I’m not surprised to see more of it this far out from Salt. In someone’s personal garden though, well, it’s a bit shocking.

“Whoa, where did that come from?” I stare.

“You mean that wasn’t what you were looking at?” Hospital Man ask.

I struggle to come up with an excuse, “Uh . . .”

“Hey, are you two fuckers roasting my therapeutic exterior decorating back there? We’re almost at Oz’s place, don’t start being pains in the ass now,” Damien shouts.

We clam up as the car continues to drive past the rocks, which takes all of five minutes. Just when I start to get bored, a gigantic mansion guarded by huge doors embroidered with ‘LaVey’ in gothic script pops up. The road goes downhill as we pass it up, and head towards what looks like a much smaller cottage. Dark asymmetrical stones make up the walls, which are contrasted by the bright roof. Colorful blooming cacti dot the front yard in organized looking pens, which have pretty flowers painted on the wood.

“Aw, Oz!” I coo, “Is this your house? It’s so cute.”

Oz twiddles his fingers, flustered, “Uh, yeah. T-Thanks for the compliment.”

“Don’t make Oz feel embarrassed about their cute house!” Damien roars.

“Boss, she didn’t mean it as an insult,” Oz covers their face with their hand.

The vehicle rolls to a stop, and I watch as Damien scoops up Oz and all but kicks the car doors open. I raise my eyebrows and look at Hospital Man. I had taken Damien supporting Oz’s body as a sign of friendliness, but the bridal carry was definitely a bit too much to be reduced to that. Hospital Man shrugs.

_ Your old feelings for your boss don’t seem to be as unreciprocated as you thought Oz. There doesn’t seem to be any need to try and get rid of after all. _I muse.

I hook my arms around all of the shopping bags at my feet and lug them outside. Having to heft them around is starting to feel like the universe is fucking with me, especially since they came from a date with someone who was in the middle of a fairly flirty situation with someone else. But I really can’t bring myself to be mad: the day before all this happened was a lovely day of surprise shopping that I’d gotten for _ free _, Oz themselves had just gotten out of a hospital, and if I was being honest with myself, I didn’t really know Oz long enough to be possessive over them.

Now that we’re outside, I peer at Oz’s face, trying to assess how they’re doing. Besides looking extremely flustered, he seems okay.

“B-Boss, I can walk!” Oz sputters.

“Shut up, I got it,” Damien insists.

Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a key and unlocks Oz’s front door. Striding in, he flips a switch and an automatic fireplace from across the room blazes to life.

Hospital Guy and I step inside. He lingers by the front door as I follow Damien, wanting to make sure Oz gets into bed.

I’m surprised at all the coordinated amenities and niceties that are in Oz’s room. Shelf after shelf is littered with what look like self-care boxes. Lotions, creams, massage wands — that sort of thing. 

Damien takes a ceramic aromatherapy diffuser and puts it on Oz’s bedside table. He lights a candle inside, and pokes a little oil in the platter on top. Immediately, nice smelling smoke begins to float up from the dish.

He uses his other arm to put Oz down on the bed. 

“Get plenty of rest. Don’t strain yourself, okay? I’m giving you tomorrow off,” he says.

“Okay,” Oz looks a little dumbfounded, like they can’t quite believe this is all happening.

They close their eyes but they clearly aren’t anywhere close to falling asleep. But seeing him in bed is enough for me, and I allow Damien to pull me out of the room.

“Ah, so do I tell your driver my address now? Oz is in bed all okay, so I should probably go,” I say.

Damien slams his hand dramatically against the wall. I jump, clutching my chest.

“Did I say something wrong?” I squeak.

Damien glares at me, “Don’t you remember what I said in the hospital genius? I said I had the fucking offer of a lifetime for you Elise. Don’t you want to hear it?”

His waiting pause after he poses his question keeps me from spiraling into a silent panic again.

“Are you actually asking me?” I ask, scanning his face.

“Of course I’m asking? What sort of dumbass answer is that? I wouldn’t make you do something you wouldn’t want to do,” he snorts.

“Well, um, in that case,” I clear my throat.

Carefully stepping around him and back into the living room. He follows, much more quietly than I thought was possible for him. He stops near the TV, but I keep walking until I’m near the couch where Hospital Man has decided to sit.

“I guess that would depend on the details of the opportunity I suppose,” I reply.

Suddenly listening to someone pitch an opportunity to me was not how I expected today to end. I should really be going home now that I know my date is in safe, but the business major in me is curious.

I vaguely recognized the LaVey name when Oz first mentioned it, though I can’t remember the industry they’re established in. Based off of Damien’s estate, they have to be pretty successful.

_ Maybe he wants to give me a job? _I wonder. _ But he doesn’t know anything about my past work performance. So that can’t be it . . . _

“Oz seems to really like you,” Damien drawls.

He pics up a bottle of alcohol from atop the fireplace and pops it. He silently offers me some.

“No thanks, I’m not old enough,” I refuse.

“I’ll have a glass,” Hospital Man speaks up.

Damien narrows his eyes at him, but pours him a glass regardless. Hospital Man takes the offering between two fingers, delicately swirling the contents around in the cup as Damien swings his head back and chugs.

Hospital Man peers at us both with an unreadable expression.

“You seem to be getting pretty relaxed for someone about to give the offer of a lifetime,” Hospital Man says.

“I made it sound like deep shit but it’s really not,” Damien raises his eyebrow, “Oz wouldn’t stop talking about how nice Elise was in the ambulance, and considering what happened today I thought I could convince her to hang out with them more. I mean, I would consider the chance to hang out with Oz more an offer of a lifetime if someone gave it to me.”

I tip my head, “You care an awful lot about your employee.”

“Well I think Oz needs more fucking friends. They work their ass off, and I think it’s the root of all their god damn anxiety. Considering the kind of shit they’re willing to do, I don’t see why they have such a hardass time doing it,” Damien gestures to my bags.

I take a step back, bumping into the couch, as I feel a twinge of embarrassment. Having to drag the shopping bags around everywhere was becoming a running joke at this point, and I don’t feel any less awkward about having them in the living room of Oz’s house than I did in the hospital.

“Yeah,” I swallow my embarrassment, “They’re pretty generous.”

“Well they did offer,” Hospital Man interrupts, “You shouldn’t have to feel bad about it.”

“What are you talking about?” Damien and I ask at the same time.

“You just sound like you feel a little guilty that Oz took you shopping when they offered to do so in the first place. I’ve had to watch friends feel indebted because they took someone up on an offer, and then later the person who gave them the offer acted as if they took advantage of them. Like they then had to pay them back,” Hospital Man says.

Damien lifts his chin, “I mean, no one _ said _ that Elise had to feel like they owed Oz, so I don’t know why you felt the need to bring that up. Besides, if you felt so bad about that happening to your friends, why didn’t you **directly** speak up and stop it from happening? It seems like you just sort of half-heartedly fucking sat there, feeling conflicted about what was happening without being bold enough to actually shut it down.”

Hospital Man opens his mouth, but can’t seem to think of something to say. Turning to look out the window, he chugs down his drink and shrugs stiffly.

“You could say that,” He mutters.

“You guys there’s no need to get all tense! I’d love to hang out with Oz more. They were really fun to hang out with. I was kind of worried they wouldn’t want to hang out again after they had their panic attack,” I chirp.

I can’t help but bounce on the balls of my feet as I get more excited. Sure, Damien isn’t offering me a job, but he seems to be assuring me that Oz isn’t going to try and ghost me after the abrupt end of our afternoon. Even though there’s something between Oz and Damien going on — which means it would be way too awkward to go on another date with Oz — hanging out with them looks like it’s definitely in my future!

_ I’m finally getting to really hang out with people! Like, more than one friend. _ I think. _ I was starting to think my entire college career was just going to be me asking people to group hang out and never getting to do because they were too busy! _

I smile at Hospital Man, “It’s really nice of you to try and look after me. I’m not saying I want to hang out with Oz just because I feel like I owe them. They were legitimately nice to be around. That’s why I wanted to make sure they got home safely. I’m sorry your friends got treated like that in the past.”

“Well that settles it,” Damien smirks.

He offers me his hand and I grasp it tentatively.

“Making deals with the devil, am I in trouble?” I joke.

“Ha ha, like I haven’t heard that one before,” Damien rolls his eyes.

Some of the tension leaves the air as we settle down. I sit, feeling less inclined to have to stand up in order to not be completely dwarfed by Damien. He wasn’t intimidating in the same way Hospital Man was, but he was certainly intense. With how loud he could be and the brazen way he drops f bombs, it felt like if I wasn’t as least _ trying _ to meet him eye to eye he would’ve steamrolled me. Thankfully his request had been relatively harmless.

I laugh, “I can’t believe I’m just noticing it now, but are you wearing a crop top?”

Damien looks down at his abs, “Yeah? You got a problem with that?”

“No! I just can’t believe I just noticed it,” I remark, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone’s boss wear a crop top to work.”

Damien smirks again, “Yeah, well, my dads didn’t put me in charge of one the Earth branches of their empire because I’m a boring p.o.s.”

“Earth branches?” I repeat.

“Yeah my dads are Kings of Hell. Obviously most of their business is in the infernal realm, but when they were going through their war campaign to try for the throne they needed money. LaVey Enterprises on Earth was one of the main ways they got that money. It lets me explore my aesthetic side so I’m the big kahuna now.”

Suddenly, his expression becomes more shark-like.

“ Also the business world is crawling with sinners, so it can also be a pretty good tool to weed out people who think they’re hot shit and take them on the ride of their fucking life,” He laughs.

“I’m not trying to sound judgemental or anything, but that must get dangerous sometimes. I like Salt, but it can be pretty conservatively religious when it comes to monster and occult stuff,” I point out.

Damien lashes his tail, “Please. Any crusty old fucks who want to mess with me are welcome to try. I’m Damien fucking LaVey. If I want to make waves in Salt, I’m going to make waves in Salt. If I want to set up shop here, anyone who wants otherwise is shit outta luck. And if I think there’s something I’m missing, but it’s right out of reach, guess what? I’m going to to fucking get it.”

His eyes bare into mine.

“No matter what it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virgil Voiceclaim: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gqLwUkKK8_o&list=PLHACfIDFF66q8-3Bhs54XKHPB4m1wB5mj&index=5  
Starting @ 9:22 The Nightmare Knight
> 
> Thoughts?


	7. A Tour - Liam de Lioncourt

_ Now _ ** _this _ ** _ is something unique! _

I swivel around midair in the middle of the room, trying to get a glimpse of all the apothecary shelves at once. The large store room feels like something out of a movie. Dim lighting sets the mood, scrawlings about teas that can be made from scratch covers part of the wall, and everywhere I look there’s a vintage jar filled with something like dragon’s blood or lion’s mane.

_ This takes me back. _ I smile in spite of myself. _ In a good way. _

When Agrarian Edict Apothecary popped up in my search bar, I certainly had my doubts. There are no shortage of average modern pharmacies run by people who want to sound retro, so they stamp “apothecary” on their sign and call it a day. The amount of times I strolled into one, hoping to have a sui generis experience only to be met with another boring store front was, well, less than the fingers on one hand. But that was only because I caught on fast.

AEA clearly isn’t screwing around. I haven’t seen an assortment of raw eclectic ingredients like this since last century.

** _Bizzbizz_ **

My phone vibrates in my pocket, snapping me out of revere. I frown until I read ELISE on my screen. Smiling, I open her text.

_ E - [Good afternoon! Whatcha doing?] _

_ L - [Poking around town. I found a genuine apothecary near the interstate. I’ll send pictures.] _

I make sure my camera’s sound is on as I case the store in a flurry of pictures. The shutter noise is one of my favorites. I know she’ll appreciate the aesthetic of AEA. Our subsequent meet ups in the library to work on more puzzles together had shown that to be true. It was a nice surprise to find out we had more in common than I first suspected. Getting to talk for hours with a someone that didn’t ask me any invasive questions had been starting to feel like an impossibility.

I start to send them to her when my phone buzzes again.

_ E - [Is it Agrarian Edict Apothecary? I’ve been there before. It’s one of my favorite places to get ingredients.] _

I swallow a gasp and chuckle to myself. 

_ Of course she’s been here before. Elise is a witch after all. I bet if I asked her I could’ve found this place immediately instead of sitting down with a thesaurus and googling every word until something interesting came up. _

“What are you laughing about?”

I turn and immediately flinch. The stranger is only about an inch away from me.

“Personal space,” I frown, floating away from him.

They grin, “Sorry friend. I just couldn’t help but notice you having a good time over here. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. I’m completely lost in here. I guess my taste isn’t good enough to uh, really get a handle on all of this.”

They gesture around at all the different jars, a smile still on their face. 

“You don’t seem to be very annoyed,” I peer at them.

They press a hand to their chest, “Amos Sorensen doesn’t let not knowing something get him worked up. He finds a way to understand. You wouldn’t happen to know someone who could help with that, hmm?”

He grins again, this eyebrows wiggling suggestively as he tests how far he can stretch the corners of his lips. Before I shoo him away, my phone vibrates.

**Bizzbizz**

_ E - [It’s so cool that we both ended up going to the same place! I really love the aesthetic of Agrarian Edict Apothecary. I’ve never had a friend whose taste was so similar to mine before. Things are going incredibly well with the store and my funds today. What about I treat both of us to a spree sometime soon? :D] _

I flinch, eyes glued to the word “friend”. Frowning, I thumb the screen, highlighting and unhighlighting the term again and again.

_ We have been spending a lot of time together lately. _ I silently admit to myself. _ I can’t really . . . blame her for saying that. _

I repeat the word in my mind.

_ Friend. _

_ Friend. _

_ Remember the last time you had friends? _ I think. _ Remember when they all died? _

My stomach ties itself in knots as I try to forget the innocent message. My thumb finds the power button and presses down, relaxing as the screen goes dark. 

_ Maybe I’ll leave it like that for a while. _I contemplate.

“You okay buddy?”

Amos snaps me out of my haze, his face an inch away from mine. Shouting in surprise, I jerk my head up from my screen and accidentally slam our foreheads together. I hiss on instinct, baring my fangs as he stumbles backwards.

“Why do you keep getting so close to me?” I spit, trying to glare at him through my blurred vision.

“There’s no need to attack me!” Amos squeaks.

He braces himself against the shelf, looking at me like I’ve gone feral. A woman with long wavy hair rushes in from the left side of the store.

“What’s going on in here?” She demands.

Amos points, “This vampire is baring his fangs at me!”

“He keeps trying to breathe the exact same spot of air as me,” I sputter, “It was an accident.”

She peers at Amos, crossing her arms.

“Same spot of air? Why are you hovering so close to my customers sir?” She asks.

Amos’s face turns pink.

“How dare you! I’m a customer too,” he insists.

“Oh really?” She tilts her head, “Because I’ve seen you in here four times this week and you haven’t bought anything. You sure do seem to enjoy talking though. Half the time I come in here to man the register you’re blabbing someone into a corner.”

He clenches his fist, “What, is having a nice conversation illegal now?”

“No, but soliciting people on business premises without any sort of permission is. You’ve had enough fun, come on, get out.” 

She snaps her fingers, mouth pressed into a thin line. Amos grits his teeth and swipes a glass jar off the shelf, spittle flying from his mouth as he starts to yell and the container shatters.

“You’re all heathens! This place is a shithole full of people just throwing their souls away! You’re _ lucky _ I was trying to help you!”

He throws two more jars at the ground, glass flying as he storms out. I bring my hands down from shielding my face, gently shaking my palms to rid them of the tiny shards I managed to deflect from my eyes.

“What the hell was that?” I scowl, “How dare he?”

The shopkeeper lowers her own hand, and for the first time I notice a small glyph on her hand, wrapped in a soft pulsing light. Shattered glass from Amos’s tantrum lay at her feet in a perfect line, like they’ve all slid off of something.

“Shield spell?” I guess.

“Mhmm,” She puts her hands on her hips, “Wish I had one for ruined merchandise.”

Red, yellow and brown powder of some kind mix together in a glittery mess on the store floor. The granules are so tiny that there’s no way they can be separated back into individual jars. Broken remains are the only thing left of the eclectic containers that used to hold the unique merchandise.

“You ought to press charges,” I drop to my knees and carefully pick up glass bits, “That was completely unnecessary.”

“Let me go get a broom,” She says.

She hurries towards the back of the shop. I drop to my knees but keep them from actually touching the ground, trying to keep from cutting myself. As glass builds up in my hands, I get angrier and angrier. When I first stepped into this apothecary, the mood had been perfectly metaphysical. Now the vibes were positively _ rancid _.

“I’ve got the rest,” She insists when she comes back.

I float backwards as she begins to sweep, and I drop what I was able to pick up into a nearby trash can.

“I can speak up as a witness if the police demand one,” I offer, “I didn’t get a good look at his face ironically enough. I was too busy trying to get him away from me.”

She waves me off, “It’s fine. We get one of those guys every once and awhile. Trust me, it’s not worth the effort chasing him down.”

“What was he trying to do? What was he soliciting for?” I ask.

She shrugs, “Something traditional that’s antipagan. There are a couple of hardcore groups like that around here, so it can be any one of them. It doesn’t really matter. Ever since people caught wind of the regular full moon meetups I host in the store and the store’s small occult book section, we’ve gotten a truck load of recruiters who want to save our doomed spirits for dabbling in profane or whatever crazy new thing they’ve come up with now.”

“You sound kind of indifferent from someone who just got screamed at,” I point out.

“I’m kind of desensitized to it at this point. Now I just wait for the newest one to make enough of a disturbance that I have an excuse to kick them out. There’s always the off chance that one of them might learn something or realize they have their head stuck up their own ass, so I have to give them a chance first,” she explains.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I comment.

“I’m glad you’re entertained,” she chuckles.

“I didn’t mean it that way!” I insist.

But that’s not exactly true, if I’m being honest with myself. One of the few things I can recall about Spooky High without wanting to automatically distract myself were the causes I would spontaneously take up arms for, whether it was through my phone screen or in person. It’s probably because it was one of the few things I did almost always alone. My old laptop with my favorite “This Machine Kills Fascists” sticker was still in the back of my closet, along with the other things I’ve started to horde over the centuries.

I can't help but notice all the elements of those old days right in front of me: a calm atmosphere broken by something sudden and unexpected, someone struggling to pick up the pieces, and a definite need for justice.

Or at least a personal desire to be an annoyance in a prick’s day for a couple of hours.

“I mean it’s kind of hard not to find it entertaining if you ask me,” someone peeps.

Emerging from a little hallway in the store I didn’t notice before, a petite blonde smiles slyly as she cradles a large jar with ‘sassafras’ scrawled across it. A crooked name tag on her chest reads ‘Mary-Anne’.

The shopkeeper flinches.

“Pardon me ma’am, but if you want to purchase something from one of the larger jars, please don’t remove it from it’s spot on the shelf. I’ll take out the portion you’d like to buy myself. We don’t want to have any accidents where someone ends up hurt,” she explains, “We’ve already has an incident today, I’d rather not have another.”

Taking the jar from Mary-Anne, the shopkeeper heads towards the cash register. Mary-Anne toddles after her, tossing a glance back at me as she continues to talk.

“I mean, I’m not trying to trivialize your troubles, and it _ was _ rather scary. W-Which was w-why I stayed in the hallway when he started getting mad, but I certainly won’t be forgetting this shopping trip anytime soon. Intelligent, charismatic recruiters trying to lead people away, witches gathering at midnight and a vampire!” Mary-Anne squeals.

She looks me up and down as if I’m some fascinating circus attraction, but our shared interest keeps me from calling her out on it.

“I have to say, I was just as surprised as you to find out about witches gathering here. I had no idea,” I comment, “I mean, I found out about one getting their ingredients here, but I didn’t make the connection.”

I trail off, not wanting to think of Elise. Thankfully the shopkeeper fills in the silence.

“It’s nothing dramatic,” She says, “We just let the night take us where it takes us. How much do you want of this ma’am?”

“Twelve ounces!” Mary-Anne grins, “I’m making tea.”

“That’ll be sixty dollars,” The storekeeper calculates.

Mary-Anne pouts, “You’re running me out of house and home just for some tea?”

“That’s just business,” The shopkeeper drums her fingers.

Mary-Anne grumbles, but fishes into her purse and pulls out her wallet.

“You’re lucky I just finished a shift. Usually I don’t splurge this much on a single purchase, but one has to be open minded when it comes to opening themselves up to new things,” Mary-Anne preaches.

She hands over a wad of bills held together with a rubber band. The shopkeeper mutters under her breath as she adds up the numbers, nodding as she finishes. Pulling out a scoop from a drawer, she takes the jar and begins pouring Mary-Anne’s portion from the jar into a smaller bag.

“Thank you for blessing me with your patronage. Surely I’m the most fortunate witch in the pumpkin patch,” The shopkeep wrly answers, “Have a nice day.”

Mary-Anne pouts again, but it quickly fades as she turns around to leave and catches my eye. 

“Follow me,” she whispers under her breath.

She quickly rushes out the door, making a sharp right out of sight. I look at the shopkeep, trying to see if she caught what Mary-Anne said. But she’s already in the process of putting the jar back where it belongs and getting the store on track for the rest of the day.

_ I’m sure I could continue to poke around in here and call today fulfilling enough. _ I think. _ But the shopkeep seems to be done talking about the man. Meanwhile Miss Mary-Anne might want to keep chatting. Unless “follow me” means something different . . . _

I’m unsure, which in an oxymoronic way makes me more sure than ever. Why let the day end at glass strewn across the floor when I could continue to speculate about the man that did it? Or perhaps end up somewhere completely unexpected?

I grab my umbrella by the door and unfold it under the shaded store porch. Darting onto the sidewalk, I feel warmth sink into the top of my head but not the sun. Safe in moving shade, I spot Mary-Anne grinning at me from behind a corner and walk over to her.

“Ooooh, are you using that to keep from disintegrating in the sun?” She coos.

“Obviously,” I drawl, “What do you want to talk about?”

“Well I was thinking about what that man looked like when I was checking out, and I think I know where he’s from. Like the headquarters of his organization. Do you wanna go?” She offers.

“You want to go somewhere with someone you just met?” I raise my eyebrow.

“You don’t have to be friends with someone to have fun together,” She says.

I pause, surprised. I start to challenge the casualness of her offer, when I remember my phone in my pocket. It doesn’t buzz or anything, but walking outside has made it shift around. Remembering it’s presence reminds me of the person I left on read, whose company I was slowly starting to get used to only for her slap a disquieting title on our relationship out of nowhere.

_ I know I have to answer her message eventually. _ I silently brood. _ Elise is the only company I’ve had for weeks. She hasn’t asked me any invasive questions, and I know we share the same tastes. We’ve spent a lot of time together, so I can’t blame her for thinking we’re . . . Time is the main qualifier people tend to use for assessing these sorts of things, and it’s not as if I can start up a relationship with someone who I can meet on a regular basis, and have that person always operate under the assumption that we’re never . . . _

I mentally redact my thoughts twice. I’ve avoided thinking about that sort of thing for a long time now, and I’m not about to break my streak now. Mary-Anne is starting to challenge my assumptions though.

“Are you serious about that?” I ask quietly, “Are you seriously a person who would indefinitely hang out with someone and enjoy their company without ever putting a label on it? Forever?”

Her eyes twinkle, “Oh course. You make everything sound so serious. Just relax.”

She beckons me towards her.

“Follow me.”

  
  
  


The house looks old, but based off the incredibly pristine coat of white paint covering the exterior, it’s brand new but built to look antique. No flowers, weeds or stray plants are anywhere in sight despite the large amount of meticulously kept lawn. I spare a look at the mailbox, which are painted in curled, feminine styled numbers.

“This is where he’s from? I thought the storekeep said he was part of some sort of group. This looks like someone’s home. Admittedly not a very lived in one, but definitely not somewhere tons of people meet up,” I observe.

She nods, “That’s what I heard. Maybe whoever is running the whole thing wants to make their organization look more homey? I’ve heard of that. It’s a very smart strategy when you think about it.”

“How’d you get interested in all of this anyway?” I inquire.

“How could I not? People like this are all over Salt. Everyone wonders about them eventually,” she responds, “Shall we?” 

She rushes to the front door before I can ask her our plan. Whacking her hand against the doorbell, Mary-Anne grins as a set of grandiose bells ring through the entire property. I can’t tell from where.

“Mary-Anne we haven’t discussed a course of action yet,” I criticize.

She fluffs her hair, “We’re a curious couple made up of a beautiful young woman and her dashing vampire boyfriend obviously. Come hold my hand so we can make it convincing.”

I sputter, “What?”

The door flies open. A grinning young redhead with the name ‘Braxton’ pinned to his lapel greets the both of us.

“Why hello there!” He sing-songs, “Who do I have the honor of meeting today?”

Mary-Anne juts her hip out, “My lover and I were just wondering if we could have a tour inside of here? We’ve heard about you guys and were wondering if we could learn what you’re all about. We might consider joining if it turns out to be a good fit.”’

“Of course, ma’am! Visitors are always welcome here,” Braxton waves us in.

Mary-Anne turns to be and shields her mouth from Braxton’s sight with her hand.

“I’m lying so they’ll let us in,” she mouths silently.

Rolling my eyes, I trudge to her side and hide my grimace as she automatically latches onto my arm. I leave my umbrella by the front door. Braxton walks deeper into the house, hand gliding across a wooden rail affixed to the wall.

“I wish you would’ve shared your plan with me before pulling the trigger,” I grumble once he’s out of earshot.

“It’s perfectly fine. Come on, let’s go,” Mary-Anne tugs me.

Swallowing a groan, I start to walk alongside her. Braxton leads us down a long hallway, his footsteps cushioned by a thick carpet. The walls are just as white as the house is outside, and when paired with the bright lights overhead it’s hard to look at anything but Braxton or the ground. Everything else is too bright. A perfume wafts through the air; it’s old, like something someone’s grandmother might wear.

“What are the names of our honored guests?” Braxton asks us.

“Well I’m Elizabeth Buckingham the Fourth, and my man here is Axelrod Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,” Mary-Anne lies.

_ Jesus fucking Christ. _I mutely agonize.

“Oooh, those sure are fancy names,” Braxton beams.

“Well our families are very old and powerful. That’s actually how we met. Keeping up alliances through modern times, isn’t that right, my favorite lavender cowpie?” She pinches my cheek.

_ This was . . . a mistake . . . _I lament.

“Oh it’s so nice to see two people so in love while keeping up tradition. That’s what we here at Fable are all about,” Braxton segues.

He turns a corner and I nearly go blind. A gigantic ceiling light nearly the size of a bedroom dresser dangles from the middle of the ceiling, illuminating a domed room covered from ceiling to floor in portraits. The pictures, with their darker palettes, are the only refuge for my watering eyes, drawing my attention to frame closest to me.

“Are you crying sir? I completely understand. The visage of our mission statement also makes me quite emotional sometimes,” Braxton reveals.

“Yeah that’s it,” I reply.

I take off my glasses and wipe my face in an attempt to stop tearing up but it doesn’t do much besides get my entire face wet as my eyes tear up again. Braxton seems unaffected. He’s probably used to it. I lean on the handrail that’s continued into the room from the hall, trying to get my bearings as I observe the painting.

The portrait itself is actually a brilliant piece of surrealism. A clear eye lays on the surface of a lake, with ripples spiraling out from it like a spiderweb. Unfurled, twisting scrolls float above it, moving like airbound fish. At the shore, hundreds of people gather around the lake, their numbers so great that their feet obscure the ground. Everyone appears to be tightly hugging each other, to the point that their skin is fusing and melting together.

“Our leader’s vision is one of order and affection. Those that live under this roof feel as if we’ve lost direction in our lives. Fable educates us where the school system has failed, lovingly telling us that most of this confusion stems from a huge generational change. Back during the rule of queens and kings, you rarely heard stories about peasants being unhappy,” Braxton begins, “And that’s because they weren’t!”

“Just because you haven’t heard of something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” I object.

“Shh, Axelrod, don’t interrupt the presentation,” Mary-Anne shushes me.

“I don’t mind Miss Buckingham the Fourth,” Braxton says, “Questions are to be expected. Tell me Mr. Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, name one time in Europe’s pre-modern history where people were clearly suffering.”

“The Black Plague,” I answer.

“Ah, but Mr. Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,” Braxton begins arguing.

“Please,” I beg, “You don’t have to use my full last name.”

“It’s so fun though! Anyway, you’ll see that if you really take a look at The Black Plague, the peasantry weren’t truly unhappy. Unhappiness comes from not being happy, and the problem wasn’t that they weren’t happy, the problem was that they were dying!” Braxton declares.

“I have to go,” I turn to leave.

“_ Axelrod _,” Mary-Anne whispers.

“_ Elizabeth _,” I bicker back.

She tip-toes to reach my ear, and murmurs into it as quietly as she can.

“He’s actually answering your questions. You’ve established an open dialogue! That’s way better than what happened with the man in the store. Perhaps these people aren’t that bad after all,” she utters.

“Have you lost your mind? Did you hear what he just said?” I disagree.

“Yes! And there’s probably a lot more he wants to say to try and help us understand. Maybe it’ll start making more sense if we hear more of it,” she says, “We have to finish what we started.”

I let out a deep, long suffering sigh.

“Fine,” I acquiesce.

Mary-Anne turns me around and pulls me to the second painting.

“Continue!” She chirps.

“The reason these peasants weren’t unhappy because their generation didn’t have the same looseness ours does on a day to day basis. There weren’t as many options. There was just what the king says and that was law. Within those parameters, the royals in power were able to drown their subjects in love.”

He points to the painting, “As you can clearly see here in our uniforms!”

Brown, mustard yellow and neon green uniforms fashioned to look like plain, thinly striped chemises hang off the shoulders of twelve painted people. A gigantic heart of blue lace is stitched to the chest. Off to the side, a couple of fanged monsters I can’t quite identify stand on standby with backup uniforms, but they’re so shrouded with shadow I can’t really make them out. Clearly they’re not meant to be the focus.

The ugliness of the fabric makes me blanch. I might not exactly remember what the man in AEA looked like, but I definitely would’ve remembered if it was anything like this.

“This is wrong,” I look Braxton up and down, “Why aren’t you dressed like this?”

“My clothes are in the wash sir,” Braxton answers.

“Mary-Anne this clearly isn’t the right group. I would’ve remembered if the man in the store was dressed like this,” I facepalm, “Someone gave you bad information.”

“Then clearly it’s a far more superior group!” Mary-Anne compliments.

“A far more — ! Mary-Anne, why do you keep . . . Oh,” I drag my hand over my face, “Oh, I’m such an idiot.” 

Mary-Anne flutters her eyelashes, “What are you talking about dear?”

“You tricked me,” I jerk away from her. “You got one of your goonies to make a scene so you could swoop in as the hero and lead me to another group as ‘the better option’. You’re like a bar pick-up artist, only I don’t have the excuse of saying I was drunk when I fell for your bullshit.”

“What are you talking about?” She balks.

“Mary-Anne _ stop _. If you’re as new to this group as I am, then why do you keep complimenting it and insisting I give Braxton’s pitch another chance? Why do you think this one is ‘the far more superior group’ like you’re in love with it?” I interrogate.

Braxton chuckles tensely, “Sir, I think you’re getting yourself a little worked up over nothing.”

“Oh yeah?” I cross my arms, “Then why haven’t you asked why I’m calling her Mary-Anne yet? Didn’t she tell you her name was Elizabeth? Don’t you think it’s weird I’m calling her something else? Or did you know that was her real name all along?”

A loud silence stretches between all three of us. Mary-Anne and Braxton glance at each other, smiling uncertainty. Mary-Anne shrugs innocently as Braxton raises his eyebrow, trying to make himself look as confused as possible as he opens his mouth.

I bare my fangs, “_ Don’t _.”

Braxton falters, adam’s apple bobbing. He stutters audibly and stumbles backwards, unsure of what to do.

“Um, Mistress . . . “ He squeaks, looking at Mary-Anne.

Mary-Anne’s face flushes a bright red. A vein on her forehead bulges as hunches her shoulders. Her pupils shrink.

“Are you fucking kidding me Braxton? You couldn’t improvise for a couple of seconds? Good fucking lord.”

She slams her hand into the wooden rail, sending a hail of splinters flying into the air. Catching a large chunk of wood in her fist she charges at me with the makeshift stake, spittle flying from her mouth.

I scream, barely managing to dive to the side. The edge of the stake catches on the hip of my nouveau suit and rips through it like it’s tissue paper. I thumb the hole, feeling for a wound on my torso, but it only seems to have sliced my clothes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I gawk at her.

Her chest heaves as she readjusts the stake in her hand.

“Based off of your reaction, I see my usual pitch isn’t going to persuade you. Such a shame. You’re one of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen,” She fawns.

“Stop fetishsizing me,” I demand.

She rolls her eyes, “You clearly aren’t capable of the love I’m trying to foster at Fable. You’re resistant to learning, refuse to give my message of compassion through loving authority any consideration, and you’ve been an _ awful _fake boyfriend --”

“Only because I had you hanging off my arm,” I glower.

Mary-Anne grits her teeth and her body starts to shake. Braxton takes only look at her and breaks into a run out the other end of the room like he’s trying to get out of the blast zone of a bomb before it explodes.

“You know what man-bun? I pegged you for a pathetic piece of shit the minute I saw you in the apothecary. I see your type all the time. Hopping from interest to interest in search of something they’ll never find, because they’re too pretentious to actually let themselves be vulnerable and actually think about how they _ feel _ about something. So I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could bring you here and maybe help you become part of **my ** family. Maybe under my heel you could learn how to express emotion in a healthy way you purple _ cunt _ , because there’s no way someone who almost burst into tears because a stranger said they would pway with dwem if they pwomised not to call them ‘fwiend’ if in _ any way _well adjusted --”

My fist sends Mary-Anne flying through the air. I don’t realize I’m crying until she skids on the carpet and rolls back onto her feet. I blink hard to readjust my eyes as she charges at me and I feel wet saltiness slip past my lips.

“Aw, is he crying?” She mocks me.

“Shut up!” My voice cracks.

I lift my elbows up to shield my face as she swipes at it. The tip of her weapon glances off my cufflink and slices into my sleeves. Floating, I lift my feet up and shove them both against her stomach.

She gasps as I send her bowling backwards. I frantically wipe at my face, scowling as more and more tears pour down it. My unbeating heart feels like it’s sinking in my chest, but I refuse to give into the urge to fall apart. I don’t want to have to figure out if I’m crying because she’s right or if I’m crying because I can only blame myself.

Mary-Anne’s knuckles slam into my jaw while I’m distracted. My head bounces off the wall and I fall to the floor. Gagging on my own spit, I choke as she kicks my throat. I grab her foot as she goes in for a second blow, shoving it to the side.

She squeals as she falls to the floor, and I make a frantic grab for the stake. Mary-Anne swipes at my fingers, forcing me to reel back as she gouges out some of my skin.

“Are you seriously going to kill me just because I don’t want to join to stupid little club?” My voice cracks.

“At first I was just going to scare you into shutting your trap, but since you insulted me, yeah,” She grins.

She pounces at me, arms wrapping around my waist. Grunting as we both hit the ground, I barely manage to catch her hands as she plunges the stake towards me. My blood smears across her skin as I strain against her, both of us locked into place by each other’s strength.

“How the Hell did you grow to be as strong as a vampire?” I grunt.

“Maybe you’re just losing your touch,” She mocks, “But maybe not. I doubt someone who starts bawling at the drop of a dime was ever all that fearsome in the first place.”

Even though I know she’s trying to get to me, I feel my heart sink a bit deeper. Shame wells up in my throat, hot and hard to swallow. It’s embarrassing. The insult isn’t even that bad. It wouldn’t even bother me if I wasn’t already crying.

My vision starts to blur as more tears pool in my eyes. As my vision gets fuzzier, the stake inches a little closer.

“Stop trying to fight me,” she orders, “Come _ on _. Lose, lose, lose!”

A soft gurgle comes from her mouth before a wad of spit lands on my cheek. I blanch and slam my forehead into her own. 

She screeches and drops the stake as I wrap my legs around her shoulders and throw my weight up. Mary-Anne unceremoniously reels back onto her knees, and I wail on her face, punching until she blood flies from her mouth. Collapsing under me, she coughs, struggling to regain her breath. I scrape her spit off of me, biting down on my tongue to try and stifle my crying. 

It doesn’t work. Tears drip off my face and create clean streaks in the red smudge around Mary-Anne’s mouth. Somewhere in our scuffle, I managed to wrap my hands around her neck, but I can’t find it in me to squeeze. The shame of having the person who made me start openly weeping pinned, but not having the strength to pull myself back together is too great.

I stumble to my feet and shove her aside. I turn around, floating back from where I came. She yells after me, but I don’t turn around. I just want to go home to where no one can see me.

“Don’t bother me again,” I say. 

I lean on the intact part of the rail, letting it guide me back towards the entrance. Picking up my umbrella, I open it up and step outside.

It’s gotten dark outside. I feel a little gratefulness. 

_ I can use my umbrella as a cane. _I think.

I close it up and lean on it, hoping to make it far away enough from the house until I feel safe enough to call a taxi. 

I take one step and feel woozy. Leaning on my umbrella, I take a deep breath and switch to inching forward a little at a time. There’s no rush. It’s not like anyone is waiting for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you get slided by a chick with poor color coordination #justiceforliam'sdrycleaning  
#gotodesignschoolhoe   
Sorry this took so long to get finished. It ended up being waaay longer than I thought it would be. I would really, really, really appreciate any feedback from anyone reading this. Feedback keeps me going, and on a chapter THIS long that I worked THIS hard on is more important than ever.


	8. An Argument - Elise of Salt

“Wow, this looks like a book,” I whistle.

Liam de Lioncourt’s small apartment complex is antique looking, with a curly wrought iron gate in front and overgrown ivy climbing up the sides. A gigantic tree barely manages to grow past the roof before spreading its wide canopy of leaves and branches, blanketing the property in a nice cover of shadow. Where I stand on the sidewalk, the sun is fully out, but under the cover of the tree Liam could spend all day on his front lawn without worrying about being burned.

Each of the four floors looks like it has four rooms tops, but Liam told me he has the entire place to himself, which means I don’t have to worry about accidentally taking up too much space.

I nestle the big trash bag in my arms, which I had grown more and more bashful about the longer I sat on the train. Cans of soup, water bottles, paper towels and toilet paper bulge inside. An older woman has cheerfully asked me if I was going to a shelter. After I muttered a no, she awkwardly shuffled back to her seat and I became the weirdo of the early morning transit.

_ He might not have a cold, but bringing soup and stuff just feels like the thing to do when someone tells you they’re bed ridden.  _ I think to myself.  _ I’m saving him trips to the grocery store. _

I push the gate open and slowly walk towards the small stoop. Now that I’ve managed to find the address he texted me, I realize I didn’t think dropping by all the way through.

_ If the doctor told him not to move too much because of the concussion, then how is he supposed to open the front door?  _ I worry silently.

I curl my fingers around the hoop of the ostentatious knocker on the front door. It’s a brass three headed dragon holding said hoop in all three of it’s mouths as they all fight for it. To my surprise, a loud chorus of trumpets automatically echo through the house the second I pull it back, not giving me the chance to rap it against the door.

“De Lioncourt?” I call out, “It’s me, Elise.”

Minutes pass, and I consider trying from the back of the building, when the door creaks open. Liam’s face pops out. Bags hang under his eyes, bigger than when I first met him, and his long wavy hair hangs in his face instead of his usual bun. 

“Subversive isn’t it?” Liam says, “The trumpeting instead of knocking? I have no idea where the melody is coming from. That's why I bought this place.”

“I hope you were in bed before I started . . . is it still called knocking if that’s what I meant to do?” I ask.

He shrugs, a small smile on his face, “Who knows.”

He opens the door wider and gestures for me to come in. A long hallway stretches out before me, with two numbered doors on each side. Stairs split it in half. Liam’s propped all the doors open with stoppers to make using all the available apartments at the same time easier. 

As I come to a stop inside, an awkward silence stretches between us. Liam hadn’t exactly said he wanted me over, but he didn’t say no when I asked for his address. I wasn’t even sure what actually happened to him.

We had been in the middle of texting when he suddenly stopped responding. At first, I told myself he was busy. But considering he had literally just told me he was in the middle of casually checking out the Agrarian Edict Apothecary, I knew that wasn’t really true. I wondered if I had replied too much. I was always seeing those compilations on YouTube of “crazy” people who left others giant paragraphs worth of text to read, right before the other person snarkily told them they were being clingy.

But that felt like a ridiculous conclusion too. Liam and I weren’t dating or anything, and rereading my reply, it honestly didn’t seem that bad. Maybe I had come on a little strong by offering a shopping trip, but for some reason that didn’t feel like it was the problem.

Cue a whole day passing, and Liam finally texting me he got a concussion somehow. I asked where he lived, and now I was standing in his home.

_ Well he definitely wasn’t lying. _ I look at his forehead, and the thick concussion bandage wrapped around it. It holds a big ice pack in place close to his skull at an angle awkward enough that wearing a bun would be pretty uncomfortable.

_ That explains why his hair is down.  _ I think.

“You brought me garbage?” He points.

“I mean it’s not like I could ask you what you wanted over the phone. What if you randomly stopped telling me what you wanted in the middle of the conversation?” I snap.

_ Whoa, where did that come from?  _ I ask myself. 

Instead of looking at me weird, which I absolutely wouldn’t blame him for, he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat.

“I suppose I deserve that. You see yesterday . . .”

He stutters before trailing off. Another silence stretches between us, even more awkward than the last. But instead of feeling like it’s just my fault, the uncomfortable way he squirms in place makes feel like there really is something going on that I don’t know about.

“Did you hit your head while in the store?” I ask.

I feel guilty for not thinking about the possibility before. Even after I found out he got a concussion, my mind had been consumed about what I could’ve done wrong or if he wanted to stop talking to me. Yeah, I was also worried about his injury, but my new obsession about our status caused me to overlook a pretty simple answer to his sudden radio silence even when it was literally the reason he let me into his home. 

_ Am I really freaking out so much over something so little? It looks like he had to go to the hospital and here I am freaking out over texts. How desperate for company am I?  _

“No, I didn’t.” He says.

He stares at me, trying to gauge my reaction. There was definitely something going on that I didn’t know about. He seems too nervous for me to be looking too deeply into things. He’s acting like someone who knows they’ve done something kind of shitty and is trying to own up to it. I know that can’t because I’m pressuring him into feeling that. For the time I’ve known him Liam’s been cool and not easily pressured; doing the exact opposite of what the mainstream expected from him was an entire facet of his personality.

_ But that doesn’t make sense either. _ I think.  _ Yeah he stopped talking to me in the middle of a conversation, which is rude, but we haven’t known each other long enough for him to betray me or anything? He could just tell me he got busy and that would’ve made complete sense, but he’s not. _

It feels like my head is splitting three ways, torn between my feelings of insecurity, embarrassment that something so small that set it off, and this new suspicion that my paranoia was right and something weird had happened behind the scenes, even though Liam and I’s friendship was not nearly old enough for us to really “betray” each other. 

A throbbing headache starts behind my temples, along with a familiar disorienting feeling that I’m becoming a passenger to my thoughts and everything happening is sort of going on without me, like I’m just a watcher and not a participant. 

_ Fuck, I might be switching.  _ I frown, closing my eyes.

“Can you tell me where to put this down?” I gesture to the bag.

“Well, er, I usually leave trash outside,” Liam frowns.

“Oh! This isn’t actually garbage. I put soup, some water bottles, paper towels and toilet paper in here,” I explain.

“Thank you? I appreciate the gesture.” He glances at the stairs. “I guess we could put it in the kitchen.”

“All the rooms upstairs are a kitchen?” I question.

“No, it’s just where my personal one is. The bottom floor is for guests, the second floor is for utilities, the third floor is for personal use and the fourth one is for storage,” He says.

“You have enough clutter to fill up an entire floor?” I ask.

He shrugs, “I’ve been alive a long time.”

Liam floats towards the stairs. I heft the bag over my shoulder while wondering if it’s more stressful on his concussion to float or walk. I see him disappear into a room upstairs and follow.

“Holy shit Liam, this is gorgeous!” I shout.

Maybe I’m just burnt out on open concept kitchens, but Liam’s personal kitchen was very closed off and cosy. Brown paint had been applied to the walls in a cloudy texture, serving as the backdrop to a round brick oven in the corner. A low set table with pillow chairs was arranged in front of it so anyone eating could enjoy the warm, and a thick curtain divided off it’s entire half of the room from what I guess is the rest of the kitchen. Old, expensive looking stained wood makes up the floorboards.

His nervousness disappears for a moment as he puffs out his chest.

“Well you know I have excellent taste, of course I would extend that to my home. I decided to be a little historical when it came to choosing my inspiration. My family, the de Lioncourts, has a Spanish and Hispanic lineage. Even back when we were distant allies of the Spanish royal family when they sought out mystic advice, we had a particular type of decor we liked to have in our homes,” He explains.

“Well it’s lovely,” I oogle.

He pushes aside the curtain to reveal a beautiful island and set of cabinets. An elaborate but small chandelier made of candles hung above the island, with a bunch of copper pots and pans hanging off the hooks.

I open up the trash bag and start putting the water into his refrigerator. As the light of the appliance washes over my face, I see an endless sea of bloody steaks, dark sausage and strange cans that I imagine must be filled with blood.

“Oh,” I realize, “You’re a vampire. You eat like, blood.”

My collection of soup and water feels more and more like actual garbage by the second. Liam reaches into the bag and pulls out the paper towels and toilet paper.

“Don’t be embarrassed, I can still use some of this. You’re very thoughtful.”

He ends his sentence with a deep sigh. 

“I wish I had been more thoughtful myself yesterday. Then I wouldn’t have this bandage wrapped around my head.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“I got tricked really easily,” He admits.

“How?” I press. 

“ . . .”

“Liam, what’s going on? You’ve been acting kind of weird, and you’re being really vague,” I point out.

“I just ended up putting my guard down because I didn’t want to put my guard down, and the irony is embarrassin. I seriously humiliated myself.” His face flushes violet. “I ended up crying and hobbling home like a fool.”

“Gods, you were  _ crying _ ? Liam, tell me what happened. Stop stalling,” I demand.

Liam’s face flushes even darker.

“A woman offered to show me around a place I was interested in under the guise we could both experience it for the first time. I turns out she wasn’t as naive as she seemed and was luring me into a trap. When I showed I wasn’t going to fall for her ruse, she attacked me,” Liam explains.

“And you feel like you fell for it in the first place because you weren’t thinking enough? Liam that’s not very fair to yourself. It sounds like you were tricked by someone who is in the business of tricking people,” I argue.

“You don’t understand Elise. I wasn’t tricked because she was some mastermind. Once I figured out what she was doing, it was obvious. I got tricked because she promised me a fun time without any commitment,” He scowls.

“ . . . She was a prostitute?” 

“Not -- !  _ No  _ Elise, I mean she didn’t want to be my friend. She said we could hang out without asking me to be friends,” He clarifies.

“That’s a weird thing to be tempted by,” I scratch my head. “That’s what lured you in? Someone saying they didn’t want to be friends with you?”

Liam raises his eyebrows, like he’s just pointed out something obvious and is waiting for it to click for me. Suddenly, my last text to Liam comes to the forefront of my mind.

_ E - [It’s so cool that we both ended up going to the same place! I really love the aesthetic of Agrarian Edict Apothecary. I’ve never had a friend whose taste was so similar to mine before. Things are going incredibly well with the store and my funds today. What about I treat both of us to a spree sometime soon? :D] _

“You’re kidding me,” I stare at him, “My little text message threw you off so much that you went running towards someone who said you could hang out without being friends? That’s so . . . weirdly specific Liam.”

“Come on,” He defends himself, “You’ve never been put off by someone calling you a friend?”

“I don’t know, maybe if we literally met two seconds ago. Not someone who I’ve hung out with  _ multiple  _ times before. And not to the degree that I would specifically be chasing after someone who would want to hang out without ever being friends. I don’t think that’s a thing people actually do?” I squint at him, “Is this some toxic masculinity dude-bro thing? Like when guys won’t tell each other when they’re sad because they’re afraid they’ll be called gay or whatever? You think friends will make you come off as a pussy or something stupid.”

Liam crosses his arms, “Absolutely not. It’s just, I mean . . .”

He struggles to find the words.

“You’ve never felt nervous at the idea of having friends? At what could happen? You have to admit, a lot of the time, just not having any sounds easy doesn’t it?” He urges me to agree.

I think about how my PTSD caused me to isolate myself in the past, and how I’m desperately trying to change that now. 

“Absolutely not,” I answer.

Liam scowls, “You’re being obstinate on purpose.”

Liam is coming incredibly close to looking like an eggplant at this point. The furrow between his brow is so deep, his bandage is starting to wrinkle, and I can see a vein bulging on his forehead. My confusion almost morphs into irritation -- his monologue is coming dangerously close to sounding like some emo schlock from a bad YA novel -- when I see the shine in my eyes.

“Are you about to cry?” I lean in to get a better look.

He steps back, shielding his eyes away from me.

“What’s wrong with you?” He barks at me, “Stop prodding me!”

“I’m not trying to prod you. I thought we were having a conversation,” I recoil, “You don’t have to yell.”

“Don’t act as if I’m the villain here. You’re mocking me,” He accuses.

“No I’m not! I’m just trying to understand what’s going on! You’re all over the place and nothing you’re saying is making any sense,” I defend myself.

“Maybe I would make a little more sense to someone who wasn’t so  _ desperate, _ ” he hisses.

A lump appeared in my throat as Liam fixes me with an accusatory glare. I ball my hands into fist, but don’t know what to say. I had come here silently freaking out over why he suddenly stopped texting me, to the point that his concussion was almost a footnote.

“I don’t see how wanting to check up on someone is desperate,” I mutter.

“We barely know each other! We’ve hung out, what, five times? And you’re trying to darken my doorstep with amenities like you’re my family?” He yells.

“It’s just a nice thing to do okay?” I shout back, “I don’t need to take this! I can leave if you want. I know people who want to hang out with me despite being an asshole about it! People who do really interesting shit like go to cool places, and are nice to me.”

“Then why don’t you go harass them?” He snorts.

_ “I will jackass!” _

I drop the trash bag, hoping that I don’t look as flustered as I feel. I’ve felt anxious over Liam suddenly not wanting to hang out anymore since yesterday, and hearing him basically say that we’re not friends confirms my worst fears. 

But the fact that he’s singled out my platonic attachment to him is even worse. Hearing “desperate” out loud hurts, but only because it’s true. 

_ The day I met Liam, didn’t I talk to myself, imagining what it was like to have friends who are impressed with me? Wasn’t I giddy when Liam said he wanted to hang out, so much so that I ended up running away before I could tell him my name?  _ I think to myself. 

I shove the curtain separating the kitchen from the rest of the room out of the way and storm out. I don’t want to think too hard about those questions. The mortified pit in my stomach already gives me an answer.

I think I hear Liam yell after me as I dart downstairs, but I’m moving too quickly to make out what he’s saying. Fumbling with the front door, I hurry towards the sidewalk and back towards the way I came. 

Liam doesn’t try to follow. I keep my head down, hoping that there’s nobody nearby to see me try to salvage the last shreds of my dignity. The last thing I want is for a stranger to see me broken up over someone I can’t even call a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback?


	9. A Trip - Oz

“You seem sort of anxious.”

Elise jerks out of her trance to meet my eyes. For the past few minutes she’s been flipping through the pages of the book I lent her, but her glazed gaze has been jumping all over the place, reading the beginning of a line before drifting to the bottom of the page and restarting on the wrong paragraph.

“And _ I _ know anxious.”

I try to give her what I hope is an inviting smile. Ever since I officially started working for The Boss, I’ve gotten better at remembering to use my mouth to talk. Basic expressions come easy, but the kind of full smiles Elise seems to be able to pull off still elude me. Ever since she got me to open up on our date, I've been trying to replicate them, hoping to return the favor. I’d been so anxious when we were together that her gesture stuck with me just because it allowed me the opportunity to vent.

I mean, I also ended up going to the hospital shortly after because I accidentally ended up triggering an anxiety attack, but that’s neither here nor there.

She smiles back at me, but it’s small. “It’s nothing.”

_ Not exactly reassuring. _I start to worry.

“It doesn’t really seem like it’s nothing. I’m not trying to make you feel embarrassed, but your eyes are all over the place,” I comment.

She scratches her head. “Oops. Sorry about that. It’s not that I don’t like the book. I haven’t read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in awhile. I remember it’s pretty good. It’s just . . . I sort of had a fight with a friend.”

_ Oh no. _ I think about The Boss’s plan. _ Please don’t let it be with Liam. _

“With who?” I prod.

“Just someone I thought was a friend. Maybe he is? I don’t know, now that I’ve had time to think he might be going through something. But I didn’t exactly handle it well. He might not want to talk to me again,” She sighs.

_ That _ ** _really _ ** _ sounds like Liam. _I tense. 

When Liam started cutting us all off, he had stayed in touch with The Boss the longest. So I’m not sure how bad his antisocial tendencies got towards the end of their contact. But when he was still hanging out with what was left of the group, it was clear he was “going through something” everywhere we went. 

It wasn’t as if The Boss and I didn’t care about our mortal friends, but the saying "time heals all wounds" held true. As corny as it sounds, every day got a little bit easier. The same didn’t seem to be true for Liam. Every day something new about us seemed to set him off. Most of the time his reactions were small. Then the fights started, and when they got to the point where I wasn’t even sure if he still wanted to be friends, he cut me out of his life.

_ But how did Elise set him off? _ I wonder. _ The entire reason why The Boss is focusing on her is because she doesn’t remind Liam of anything. It can’t be some sort of normal catty fight. Elise is so nice. _

“He probably just needs a little bit of time to cool down.” _ I hope. _“Don’t freak out too much over it. You’ll give yourself an anxiety attack.”

I shoulder her gently, wiggling my eyebrows.

She frowns, “Don’t joke about that. Me and your boss were really worried about you.”

I blush, “I’m sure he was just concerned about his employee’s ability to continue to come into work.”

She shakes her head. “No, he’s definitely into you. I remember when I asked you to vent you said you were trying to move on from your crush on him because you knew he didn’t reciprocate your feelings, but I think you’re way off base. If you asked him on a date I think he’d say yes.”

My body jerks in surprise. As my heart skips a beat, it feels like all the blood in my body rushes towards my head. I dig my nails into the cover of my book as I start to feel dizzy.

_ The idea of The Boss actually . . . _

I can’t even finish the thought without feeling like I might faint. I giggle nervously, trying to distract myself from the line of thought before I work myself up too much.

“You’re awfully insistent that I should be with someone else for someone who is dating me,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “We’re dating?”

“ . . . I thought it was obvious?” I remark, “What do you think we’re doing right now? What do you think we’ve been doing when we’ve kept hanging out?”

“I thought we were just hanging out as friends? When you asked me out shopping you made it clear it was a date, but every time since then you’ve just said: want to come over?”

My anxiety dissipates as I burst out laughing.

“That’s a date Elise! You’ve been fine thinking I just wanted to hang out as friends after we had a date? Don’t you think that’s a little weird?” I snort.

“Not really. I mean, It’s not like every single date ends with the two people ending up together forever. What’s wrong with staying friends after a date? I’d hate to lose someone to hang out with just because we’re not dating anymore,” she says.

“It’s kind of hard to just be friends with someone after you’ve dated. You’ve never been in love with someone before, have you?” I ask.

“Not like you and your boss,” she teases.

“Once again, we’re dating,” I remind her.

“Are we really though? I mean, you just had to _tell_ me that we’ve been going out on dates. I don’t need someone to tell me you and Damien like each other,” she tips her head. “If we are dating, I think we should break up. It seems like we’re kind of shitty at it. Your feelings are clearly somewhere else.”

My heart starts racing again. Besides having to think about The Boss and I, being close enough to Elise to get to Liam was part of his plan. Being just friends would ruin that.

_ Would it actually? _ I pause. _ This entire time Elise hasn’t thought we were dating but she still cared about me. Could the plan work with us just being friends? She does seem to care about friends a lot. _

I finger my shirt nervously. If I’m being honest with myself, it’s not just the fantasy of being with The Boss and the plan that makes me nervous. Elise is nice. I’d hate to stop talking to her if I report back to The Boss, and he says to cut off contact because the plan’s changed.

Elise completely misreads my pensive silence.

“Wait, did I just break your heart or something? Were you actually into me?” She sputters.

“I mean, I did have a bit of an actual crush on you,” I lie, then sprinkle in the truth. “But you’re not wrong by saying my feelings for my Boss are stronger.”

She deflates, “Sorry. I should have put my thoughts more delicately. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But I really do think you should try with your Boss. I think you have a real chance! I’m rooting for you.”

I hesitate, “Would we be close friends if we still broke up? You seem to be okay with the idea of still being friends after a breakup, but could we stay _ close _friends?”

Elise’s eyes light up.

“Definitely! I’m honored you’d want to be really close. I definitely thought we were friends, but close friends sounds great,” she chirps.

The trust in her eyes makes me feel queasy. I glance out the window as I lie again so I don’t have to look at her face.

“Okay, I guess we’re broken up then,” I state.

“How will my heart recover?” She jokes. “I must turn to my old friend Holmes.”

Elise starts to refocus on the book I lent her. I put my hand in the middle of the page to stop her.

“Before we dive back in, I actually wanted to ask you a couple of things about the piece you swapped with me?” I clear my throat.

“Of course,” she says.

“I know you’re a witch, so is this book you swapped with me -- Stealing The Fire From Heaven -- your main resource for spells?” I ask.

“Oh Hell no!” She refutes, “That’s just one of the books I’ve read to study. I don’t really rely on one source. I just try to learn as much about magic as I can when I can. I’ve also read Condensed Chaos, The Art and Practice of Geomancy, The Lesser Key of Solomon and Seven Spheres. I sort of have a book list of stuff I want to read and I’m slowly making my way down it.”

I raise my eyebrows, “The Lesser Key of Solomon is about demons isn’t it?”

“Yeah! I’m not what I would call super experienced at it but practice makes perfect. No skill worth learning comes quickly and all that jazz,” she hums.

“Maybe The Boss has some tips. I’ll ask him for you,” I offer.

“Really? As long as he’s not too busy, that would be so cool. Thanks so much!” Elise grins.

“It won’t be any trouble at all. Things are winding down in the office now that the newest collection is out and we’re about to go on our trip to New York. The Boss has some networking appointments in the Core Club but it’s mostly going to be relaxing . . . I’m actually supposed to invite you,” I admit.

After telling The Boss how well my regular meet-ups with Elise were going, he wanted to learn more about her personally so he could figure out how to further leverage our relationship to get close to Liam. He informed me how he told her I needed more friends in order to make her feel sympathetic, a nudge to make her more receptive requests like this one.

_ I thought I was done feeling guilty today. _I mentally lament.

“I’ve heard of the Core Club. I think it might be a little too fancy for a gal like me. And I’m not sure how my father will feel about me going on a trip with people he hasn’t met before . . .” She trails off.

_ Please don’t make me have to guilt her. _I squirm.

“It’ll be fun. I promise the club isn’t nearly as overwhelming as you think. I won’t really have anyone else to hang out with besides Damien. It’ll be nice to have you along. You never planned another outing with me after our first one ended in the hospital. I know we're not dating anymore, but it would be nice way to make it up,” I say.

Her expression softens, “If you really feel that way, then I guess I’ll think about it some more. I don’t know how I’d pay for it though.”

“I’ll cover it!” I blurt out a little too quickly. Anything to make me feel less shitty about this is well worth it.

“If I tell my father I’m going to another state with people he doesn’t know and they just happen to be paying for everything, he’s going to think I’m being trafficked,” she bites her lips. “I suppose I could tell a little white lie and say it’s a school thing. Not an official trip since we’re on break right now, but maybe a classmate got a free invite to a Core networking event? He might buy that, I am a business student.”

“Do it,” I pressure her before I lose my nerve. “We’ll have so much fun together.”

“Okay,” she takes a deep breath, “But if I need help convincing him you gotta back me up.”

“I will,” I promise.

Elise smiles nervously, “Then I guess we’re doing this.”

“Amazing,” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’ll send the tickets and itinerary to you tomorrow. We’re taking a connecting flight to Florida then riding a luxury train overnight to New York.”

She brings a hand to her chest. “Wow, my heart is sort of racing. I’m going on a getaway with my friend and their boss to some antebellum place in New York.”

“It won’t just be The Boss and I. The man you met at the hospital will be there too,” I correct.

“Are they business partners?” She questions.

“No, uh, just friends,” I lie again.

This fib goes down easier than the rest, if not because it’s the least manipulative one so far, then because it was so far from the funny truth. 

The Boss has been snapping at Virgil de Lioncourt’s heels ever since the company started accommodating his stay at his hotel. He's far from a bad person to foot the bill for; while he let's us pay the room fee, he covers all his own meals. No, the problem is that The Boss and Virgil keep finding things in common. Virgil will bring up something, The Boss finds out he's surprisingly into it, and then they'll have pleasant conversation until The Boss remembers he’s supposed to be surly and barks at de Lioncourt.

_ I can’t wait to see what being around both of them is going to be like on a small space like a train. _I silently muse, resigned to my fate. 

“Then it’ll be the four of us. I’ll pack a bunch of books and we can have a book club overnight on the train,” she says.

“Usually I just watch The Boss draw little dicks on the windows of the train, so that sounds like a nice change,” I say wrly.

“Why do you like him so much?” Elise inquires.

I lean back against the pillows on my bed, trying to temper my anxiety as it comes back once again. With everything I’ve had to do so far and all of the things I’m feeling already, if I don’t go slow I might send myself into another anxiety attack.

“I-I’ve known him for a long time. Combined with the fact that I’m his assistant, you can guess everything I’m about to say is pretty cliche.”

I take a deep breath and steady myself. 

“What isn’t there to like? He’s passionate, takes what he wants, isn’t afraid of who he is or what he likes, and he has all the confidence I wish I had. A-A-And I know this sounds odd, but I really like how loud he is.”

“Really?” Elise tips her head.

“Yes. I can sort of get inside my head too much, but The Boss is always there to snap me out of it. He’s good at distracting me from my thoughts, if that makes sense. And he’s good at reminding me not to let people talk over me,” I smile softly.

“See this is what I was talking about. When you talk about him, it’s so obvious how head over heels you are. No one has to tell me,” she teases. “You two are going to make the cutest couple.”

I sputter, “You talk like it’s already happened.”

She winks, “It will, trust me.”

The blood starts to rush to my head again.

“Can we stop talking about this actually? I’ve been thinking about this so much I’m starting to get overwhelmed,” I admit.

Her brow furrows, “Should I call someone?”

I wave her off. “It’s not that bad yet. We should just stop now.”

“Have you thought about getting on some medication?” She brings up, “I’m not trying to bully you or anything but if your anxiety is this bad I think some professional medical help could really help.”

“Not really. I’d rather stick with meditation and try to take relaxing baths. I don’t think I have the time to go through the adjustment period of medication: going through adjusted dosages, figuring out which ones work without unintended side effects, have to wait those side effects out until they wear off, etc etc. I’ve heard horror stories,” I say.

“You can’t let your mental health be dictated by hearsay Oz,” Elise scolds, “I know all of that sounds bad, but imagine how you’ll feel once you find the right stuff.”

“I promise you I’m fine,” I insist, “I’ve already had this conversation with The Boss. As long as I can figure out how to relax here and there I can power through it.”

She huffs, “If you say so.”

“Let's order a late lunch,” I suggest, “I’ve got Postmates on my phone.”

Her eyes light up, “We can get a pizza. Have you tried Sicilia Pizza & Kitchen downtown? Their calzones are sooooo good.”

“No, but I can try it right now,” I smile.

As I open up the app, Elise scoots closer, and we fall into a comfortable silence. In a couple of minutes the food is on the way, and we end up watching Netflix. The rest of the day, we stuff our faces while quipping at the actors on the screen. It’s fun as far as dates-turned-hangouts go, and whenever Elise laughs with me I can’t help but feel like it’s one of the easiest friendships I’ve ever had.

Too bad it’s all lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts? I know this chapter was mostly talk, but I love characterizing people through dialogue.


	10. The Train Pt. I - Damien LaVey

“Oz would make a good art piece, don’t you think?”

I keep my voice quiet, but loud enough that Virgil de Douchebag can hear me. 

Virgil stops leaning on the station pole, straightening his spine. He has the nerve to look confused.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” He asks.

I scowl at him, “You heard me? Oz is really you know . . . arty looking?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to say you think they’re pretty?”

My face heats up. I slap my hand over my nose where my blush is always strongest and scowl at him.

“No fuckdoor. Is that what I said? I said they would make a good art piece. Like, the inky blackness of their body goes well with their pearly eyes, and the pitch black nature of their form is a beautiful unconventional demonstration of positive space that’s dark,” I explain. “Like objectively.”

He has the nerve to look at me smugly, the corners of his lips turning up.

“I can’t tell if this is leading to some new insult, or if you’re trying to bond with me through a weird convoluted version of flirting,” he rumbles.

I cross my arms and turn away, grinding my teeth.

“I miss when you knew how to shut up,” I insult.

“If you wanted me to keep feeling cowed you should’ve kept me holed up in my room,” he says.

I narrow my eyes at him, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“When I first got here, I didn’t know anything about Li . . . My older brother, and having you point that out made me feel worse about that than I already did,” he starts.

“I didn’t ask for your life story,” I interrupt.

His mouth forms the same unreadable expression from the first time we met. A bit of the intense gleam in his eyes comes back, but he doesn’t look quite as passionate as when he was pelting me with questions — more like thoughtful.

“I stayed quiet because I’m ashamed, and that shame with what seemed like your assured attitude made it easy to just follow your lead,” his jaw tenses. "Even though I felt conflicted."

I bare my teeth in a tense smile. “Are you implying that I don’t know what I’m doing jackass?”

Virgil keeps eye contact with me, unblinking. “No, but it’s easier to let someone do something shitty when you don’t have to watch them or actually know them. But now that I’ve been following you around, I can’t really tell myself you’re just this assured _ thing _I can dump all the responsibility on.”

I roll my eyes. “Satan you sound pretentious. Are you seriously telling me that you care about my moral condition or some shit? I’ve barely known you for a couple of months, fuck off.”

Virgil’s eyes feel like they’re burning into my skin, but I keep a straight face.

“I’m not talking about being a good person. I’m talking about my brother. Let’s say this all works out. Let’s say we use Elise to trick Liam into meeting us. And I do think we can get to that point. From what I heard about you in high school, it’s clear you’ve gotten better at thinking things out, and I do think your plan up until the meeting is sound. During that meeting, if he’s really gotten attached to Elise because of her lack of baggage, what do you think he’s going to think of you for using her?”

I pause, and the same sense of uncertainty that struck me when I almost told Virgil to get the fuck out of Salt comes back. Was using Elise like this “right” when it came to Liam? 

_ Morality in general is pretty fucking stupid, but if something is wrong for Liam then he might not want to be friends again. That’s why I’m letting this fraternal fuckbag talk to me. _I think.

“Did you forget the entire reason this has been fucking working genuis? Elise is nothing to Liam. She doesn’t know anything about who he used to be --”

“Knowing someone for a long time is not the same thing as caring for them. That may be the case for you, but maybe Elise has grown on my brother since he’s met her, even though he hasn’t known her as long as you. Maybe she hasn’t grown on him but he would just be generally put off by your treatment of someone just to break him out of his isolation. We don’t know the person he is right now,” Virgil says.

Silence stretches between us. I can’t think up a rebuttal, but I refuse to let Virgil know he’s made me question myself. Liam was **my ** friend, and this is **my ** plan, and I’m **going **to make it work. 

_ That’s why I’m Damien fucking LaVey. _I think.

“Smith! Mr. Lavey, Oz and I got our tickets checked! We can wait over by the chairs now.”

Virgil and I glance over to Elise as she calls “our” names. Virgil snorts under his breath and gives me a side glance at the sound of the alias I gave him. I open my mouth to tease him about it when he speaks first, whispering so only I can hear.

“Don’t brush off what I said. You already forgot to make sure my brother’s friend wouldn’t meet me so she couldn’t mention me to Liam. Using Smith might make sure my name doesn’t come up, but we have no idea if my description will.”

He pulls back just as Elise and Oz reach us. Elise looks at us curiously.

“What were you talking about?” She asks.

“Business stuff,” Virgil responds. “What about you two?”

He pulls the baggy hood of his sweater further over his face, glancing around to see if anyone has recognized him. I try to keep my anger from showing on my face so Elise won’t ask what’s wrong. I hate a lot of fucking shit, but one of the things I hate the most is people catching me off guard and then forcing me to “act normal”. Virgil’s right about the Smith thing -- technically that was a huge fuck up on my part -- but he didn’t have to bring it up before we had to act cool. Especially not after he’s been needling me.

I pretend to playfully punch him in the shoulder, making sure my knuckles dig into his skin.

“HA HA, trying to flirt Smith?” I force out a chuckle.

Infuriatingly, Virgil doesn’t give any sign that he’s hurt. Elise smiles at him and points to Oz.

“Oz was just telling me how much they enjoy train trips like this,” she replies.

“You like train trips?” I ask Oz, “You’ve never told me.”

“I mean, they started out as just a way to reach charity functions, but I’ve gone to so many that they’re grown on me. Plus there are few things on Earth that beat a luxury train car,” Oz says. “They’re schedule oriented, have a bunch of different things to relax with and sometimes their reading selections are really nice.”

I immediately commit Oz’s words to memory. Maybe I can bullshit some more train trips into future business trips.

“We’ve got twenty minutes before the train rolls in. Elise is right. We should find some seats,” Oz says.

We drift over to the seats by the station windows, Oz and Elise’s luggage rolling behind us. Virgil and I both brought duffel bags instead of suitcases, and to my fury he has the same type as mine. The only difference is that Virgil’s is a sick dark shade of red I’ve never seen before. I’d ask him where he got if I wasn’t determined to ignore that our tastes overlapped at all.

Elise notes me struggling not to stare at Virgil’s shit and pipes up as we sit down.

“What brand is that? I think I’ve seen it in my order forms before,” she asks.

“Jackson Wayne,” I grumble under my breath.

“Order sheets?” Virgil interjects, “Do you work at a store or something?”

“I own one actually,” Elise says, “It’s a thrift shop and wholesale store. I must’ve seen a knockoff. ‘Jackson Wayne’ sounds way too expensive to be in my wheelhouse.”

Oz looks surprised. “You’ve never shown me any store. We could’ve been hanging out there.”

“Oh it’s not physical. I do everything online. I started it up in high school, and it would be pretty hard to keep up a physical storefront while trying to get ready for SATs,” she explains.

“You still do it now?” Virgil asks.

“Yeah, I’ve kept renewing my business license since my junior year, so I’ve been doing this for, wow, more than three years now. I just realized that,” Elise yawns.

As I listen to what she says, I also pick up how tired she sounds. Her voice sounds as cheerful as the day I first met her face to face, but there’s a tenseness to it like she’s stressed and doesn’t really want to talk.

“Is it going well?” I ask. _ Maybe this is another opening I can use. _

“Yeah actually.” She rubs her face. “Now’s actually the first time I can say I’m actually happy with the income it’s making without fudging the truth.”

_ Dead end. _I think.

“If ambitious-little teenage-me could see me now her head would explode,” Elise adds.

“But?” Oz prods. They obviously hear the same tenseness in Elise’s voice as I do.

“But that’s it?” She responds, confused.

“You sound like something is on your mind,” Virgil guesses.

“Oh no, I’m just kind of tired,” she insists.

“But we just got here. And it’s still morning. Who's tired at 10am?” I snort.

She shrugs and leans her head back, letting her afro flatten against the giant glass windows. I zone out as Virgil starts to chat with Oz until the sound of a loud train whistle goes off in the distance.

“Finally!” I jump to my feet, “I thought I was going to be dead before this choo-choo motherfucker showed up!”

A high pitch voice immediately falls into peals of laughter next to me. I turn around and see an older woman draped in pearls clutching her knees. Her short hair exposes her long pointed ears, which have gone bright red along with the rest of her face as she cackles up a storm.

The stout man next to her doesn’t look nearly as happy. He looks me up and down with disapproval, scoffing.

“Please tell me this foul mouthed young man won’t be joining us on the trip,” he jeers.

Oz places their hand on the small of my back before I can tell him to fuck off. 

“Boss, we have to start boarding, don’t start a fight,” they insist, voice hushed.

I grumble under my breath and make an “I’m watching you” sign at the stranger. The woman snorts and starts up her laughter again, before kissing him on the cheek.

“Cheer up Keebler, don’t you remember being young and unafraid to speak your mind?” 

“Because I was just as responsible as I am now and knew the things I said would have a positive effect on the people around me? Yes, Elfennie, I do,” he hums.

His accent is so pretentiously British that I want to mock it, but Oz taps me on the back again.

“Boss,” they urge.

Rolling my eyes, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder and turn away from the couple. Elise has already gotten outside the station building and is getting on the train, a frown on her face.

_ So there is something wrong. _I note.

Virgil is waiting for Oz and I by the door, and we get onboard as a group. The faint smell of alcohol hits my nose and I grin, whooping.

“Fuck yeah, the conductor knows it’s five of clock somewhere!”

Even though the booze is probably somewhere in the back, the entire inside of the train is reminiscent of an old speakeasy. The booths are studded with medallions and covered in worn leather with an aged smell. Dim lighting comes from small chandeliers hanging from above, and every surface is made out of dark polished wood. The walls are painted a warm gold, matching the shelves above each booth table that look like they’re repurposed from bar carts.

_ The interior design in here is on fucking point! _I think, pulling out my phone to take some pictures for inspiration.

“I can take your bag Boss.”

I jump in surprise as Oz appears before me soundlessly, their suitcase gone.

“You scared the shit out of me. Where did yours go?” I ask.

“I already took mine and Elise’s to the luggage room.” Oz explains.

I look at the end of the room where a bunch of suitcases stand behind a pair of glass doors and wonder how Oz could’ve gone all the way over there without me hearing, before spotting the plush red carpet covered in an intricate pattern under my feet. I stomp my foot against it and don’t hear as much as a light thud.

“Young man! Could you please find some manners? I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months. I will not have it ruined with your horrendous attitude.”

Keebler or who fucking ever stands behind me, scowling. Elfennie is too busy swiveling her head at every part of the train to jump in, so I smirk and get ready to say every cuss I’ve ever heard just to spite him.

“Boss I need an answer,” Oz squeaks.

There’s a note to their voice that tells me that they’re just trying to distract me with my luggage now, but all that fades away when Oz puts their hand on my wrist.

Slender and long, their hand feels like it’s barely there, almost like a ghost’s. But the pads of their fingers are firm with callouses for hours of work. Oz touches me to get my attention all the time, but we’ve never been this close to holding hands, and the unique feel of their hands automatically makes my brain short circuit.

“Uh, yeah take it,” I mumble.

“Fantastic, come with me,” Oz says.

Their hand fully wraps around my wrist to pull me along, and I barely register them taking my bag. One second we’re putting my bag on top of Oz’s suitcase, another second we’re in our booths. To my disappointment, Oz is sitting across from Virgil in the booth right behind ours. I’m sitting across from Elise, whose body looks like it’s doing its best to melt into her seat. 

Despite her deflated posture, her hands are alert and busy. She writes something quickly in a book I’ve never seen before. When she closes it, I see a detailed dragon carved into the leather of the cover.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she replies, setting the book down beside her. 

She takes a slow deep breath like she’s trying to cover up a sigh.

“Are you going to be like this the entire trip? It’s going to be pretty boring if you are. I mean we already asked you what was wrong,” I complain.

She looks surprised. “You asked me if something was wrong?”

I scowl, “Yeah inside the station like, five seconds before.”

Elise blinks owlishly. “Oh, I forgot. Well I think my answer is the same as the one I gave you back there if I said I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

Virgil turns in his seat until he’s leaning over Elise so he can look at me.

“Enough about Elise. Let’s talk about your gift bag room.”

“Who told you about that?” I sputter.

“Oz,” Virgil answers. 

“Stop pumping my assistant for information about me,” I growl.

“He’s not doing that Boss, we’re just having a conversation,” Oz assures me.

Virgil smiles suspiciously, and I can’t help but doubt my assistant.

“Well talk about something else,” I order.

“Like what?” Virgil questions.

He doesn’t sound like he’s going to keep me from changing the subject, but I can’t shake the feeling it’s only because he thinks he can still field information from whatever I suggest.

_ What the fuck are you up to? _ I stew.

I try to think of something really generic. I remember a boring-ass interview with QG magazine and smirk at him.

“Describe your perfect day,” I propose.

“Oh wow, that sounds fun,” Oz comments.

I perk up as I realize that I’m about to hear a bunch of Oz’s favorite things. This might’ve started as a distraction but it might actually be useful.

“Well if I had a perfect day . . . hmm,” Oz starts. “I think it would start with a nice long breakfast so I could spend some time reading. Then I would reorganize my scheduling, use some of my relaxation products so I can get a handle on my anxiety for the day. I’d have lunch at twelve on the dot, spend the afternoon organizing checks to go to my favorite charities, and then play competitive chess until it’s time to go to bed.”

“You like competitive games?” Elise balks.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Oz asks.

“I don’t know, with your anxiety and all I thought competition would put you off,” Elise says.

“My regular anxiety is like, there can be a lot of unpredictable variables when it comes to day to day life. Like the potential of failure and whether you can do certain things. But games have set rules. They’re predictable. It’s different,” Oz explains.

Suddenly the train shifts, and slowly starts to leave the station. We all take a second to pause and look out the window as we leave and start our journey towards New York.

Several stewards emerge into the train car and start approaching booths. One of them, a slim woman covered in freckles, stops at us and starts handing out menus.

“Good morning everyone! I hope this morning is treating you well. We have a wonderful selection of food for your consumption, and a selection of books from our curated library for your entertainment,” she greets.

“I’m not hungry, but I would love to dive into one of those books. I think I’m in the mood for some fiction and a fantasy world setting. But not one that’s too complicated. I’m not in the mood to try and remember the names of twenty different countries and a hundred nobles who are all relevant to the plot.”

“I’ll pass on the food and books. I prefer to just talk to my companions,” Virgil says.

“Irish coffee,” I order.

“I’ll take the french toast sticks, frozen fruit protein bites and the fruit skewers,” Elise chirps.

The dark cloud over her head seems to have cleared up a bit at the mention of eating. She’s still sinking in her seat, but now there’s a smile on her face.

“I’m guessing your perfect day starts with stuffing your face,” I point out.

“Do you have a problem with that?” She tries to make the reply sound light-hearted, but there’s a bit of an edge to it.

I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “No, it’s just hard to ignore when you order three different things.”

“Charge her order to my account by the way,” Oz calls over.

“I just like finger foods and little tea treats like the ones on the menus. The pictures make them look so . . . cute,” Elise opens up. “They would be how I’d start the perfect day.”

Even though I started this train of thought trying to throw off Virgil, it’s created an opportunity to find out more about Elise I can use. I lean forward and make a “go on” motion with my hands.

“I would start the day out with finger foods,” she reiterates. “Then I would work on my writing projects, draw, and record a video. I’d stop for lunch, then head out for some archery for an hour. I’d work on sewing until it was time for bed, and then update my books of spells. During the day I would’ve received multiple orders from my thrift shop large enough to put me on my way to my targeted monthly income. The next day I would process them.”

Virgil whistles, “That sounds busy.”

“I like being busy,” Elise says.

“I forgot you were a witch,” I remark. “Show us some magic.”

“I’m too tired,” she brushes off the suggestion. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I think I’ll pass on answering,” Virgil says as we glance at him to finish this experiment. “Damien?”

“Nah, I’m bored now,” I lie. “I’d rather just look out the window.”

Elise has just said a lot, and I want to stop and think about how I can use it. The group lapses back into silence. Virgil turns back around and settles into his booth with Oz behind Elise. Oz stops raising their voice to talk to everyone. I sink into thought as I gaze out the window. Mountains roll by, spaced out with large flowering planes. I’m too zoned out to notice if everyone else starts talking again when lunch comes. There are multiple ways I could possibly use what I’ve just learned, and I don’t want to stop thinking about them until I’ve thought them through. Virgil will see why Damien LaVey always gets what he wants.

When night finally rolls by, the stewards emerge again, and guide us into the next train car to sleep. It’s full of small, eloquently decorated compartments lined up in a hallway across from each other. 

I skip getting ready to go to sleep. I don’t want to have to dig my toothbrush and shit out of my bag. Instead I flop down on the bed, turn off the bedside lamp and pass the fuck out.

When I open my eyes it’s still night. I glare into the darkness, confused, until my stomach growls. I realize I’m starving. My hunger must’ve woken me up.

_ I did skip lunch and dinner _. I think.

I grumble and sit up, shuffling into the hallway. I follow the faint smell of booze I detected when I first got on the train. I’m not going to bother one of the workers who are sleeping, and it’s not like there’s anyone here who can tell me _ not _ to drink wine as a snack.

I eventually stop in front of a metal door, the first contrast I’ve seen to the speakeasy theme on the trip so far. I wrap my hand around the handle, and the cold temperature of the inside of the freezer sinks into my hands.

Pushing it inward with a grunt, I slip inside as soon as I’m able to make a big enough crack.

_ Fuck, this shit is heavy. _I silently stew.

I grope around in the dark for a light switch. I eventually find a chain and tug. Light floods the room, and I see a corpse, freshly bloodied with it’s bones snapped in a dozen unnatural angles. 

“Holy shit!” I shout.

Something shifts behind me. I snap around, ready to defend myself. The lights go out as I hear the chain being tugged on again. I open my mouth to cuss, and it’s immediately filled with thick glass as a bottle is smashed against my face.

And then everything goes dark.


	11. The Train Pt. II - Virgil de Lioncourt

The sound of the train chugging along isn’t quite right. I’m sure that the gentle clicking that lulled me to sleep was farther apart, but now it’s more insistent. The space between the noise is much smaller, almost like rapping. It’s odd enough to keep me squinting, confused, into the dark when it wakes me up. But not enough to completely shake off my drowsiness. I close my eyes, trying to drift back to sleep, when a strange wind picks up. I grit my teeth as is hisses through my compartment. 

_ Someone must’ve opened a window or something. _I think.

Sitting up, I roll out of bed and let myself float above the floor, too tired to walk. Drifting towards the door, I open my mouth to yell for whoever it was to close their window, only to run into Oz. I wince as they fall onto their back.

“Sorry,” I reach down to pull them to his feet. “Why were you outside my door?”

“I was wondering if you saw the Boss,” Oz says. “I tried to knock but you weren’t responding, so I thought I’d whisper.”

“What do you -- ? Oz was that tapping and airy sound you?” I ask.

“Yes,” they confirm. “I hope I wasn’t too loud.”

“Oz I literally thought you were the train and the wind,” I grouse. “You have to be louder if you want to get people’s attention. Especially if they’re asleep.”

They deflate. “So I’m guessing you haven’t seen the Boss if I just woke you up. He’s not in his compartment.”

“No,” I yawn. “Maybe Elise has. Let’s ask her.”

“You’ll go with me?” Oz asks.

“Yeah, sure, I’m already awake,” I sigh.

Oz looks relieved. “Thank you! She seemed sort of different today. And well, it’s kind of getting hard to look her in the eye . . .”

Oz trails off, kicking the ground. My last bit of exhaustion falls away as I remember why we’re on this trip. I pause, immediately empathizing with Oz as my conflicting feelings about everything comes back.

I remember agreeing with what Damien said when I first arrived in Salt, knowing that I was out of my depth and that he probably knew Liam more than me. I remember meeting Elise, having a pleasant conversation in the hospital, and then beginning to backtrack on how I agreed to use her until Damien secretly called me out for my half-baked attempt, and I sunk back into silence. Then I watched Damien go about his business, very clearly holding a torch for Oz, showing himself to be more than the guy I was letting front for everything. I began to think not just about using Elise, but Damien in a way too. What would happen when we finally met Liam? I know he already hated me, but would that be extended to Damien when this all reached its climax? Would he have to go through the same crushing feeling I did when Liam said he never wanted to talk to me again? Back and forth and back and forth. 

“Yeah,” I frown. “This situation is . . . complicated.”

Oz looks surprised. “You really think that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I’ve been around you for months and your two emotions seem to be ‘amused’ and ‘intense evaluation’.” Oz says. “I didn’t think you were really lingering on the plan at all.”

“Hm,” I respond noncommittally. _ It’s nice to know that the only person who seems to have caught my anxiety is Damien. Speaking of . . . _

“Well if you’re not in the right mindset to talk to Elise, I’ll do it. Damien’s not exactly the sort of person you want unaccounted for,” I offer.

I stroll across the hall and knock on Elise’s door. She opens it in a flash, a red sleeping scarf on her head. 

“Yes?” She chirps.

“Were you awake?” I ask.

“M-hm. I have a little trouble sleeping sometimes,” she admits. “What do you need help with?”

_ She seems peppier than she was earlier. _I note.

“Have you seen Damien? Oz is looking for him,” I explain.

“In the middle of the night? Why?” Elise questions.

Her remark catches me off guard. I turn to Oz and raise an eyebrow.

“Why were you checking Damien’s compartment at this hour?” I ask.

Oz looks bashfully at their feet. “Sometimes I like to check up on him to make sure he isn’t having nightmares.”

“D’aww,” Elise coos.

Oz puts their head in their hands. “Elise, _ please _.”

Elise steps out of her compartment, and slowly closes the door behind her. Now that she’s out, I notice Elise is wearing a short red nightgown. She shivers as her feet rest on the wooden floor. 

“I should’ve brought a robe,” she admits. 

I unbutton my nightshirt, fine with just the thermal shirt underneath. I hand it to her.

“Here,” I offer.

“Thank you!” Elise exclaims. “You’re so nice. I’ll be sure to give it back”

I remember Oz’s admission as she grins gratefully at me. _ “And well, it’s kind of getting hard to look her in the eye . . .” _

Elise puts it on. She looks less like she’s wearing my shirt as a jacket, and more like she’s getting swallowed by a sheet. With more than a foot of height difference between us, I’m not quite sure what I expected. 

She glances down both sides of the hall. “So do you want to check the lounge or one of the other train carts first?”

I look at Oz. “You know him best. Where do you think we should start?”

Before Oz can respond, the door to one of the compartments slams open. The elf Damien had been bickering with, Keebler, glares at us. His partner Elfennie jerks awake at the sound.

“Of course it’s this group again,” the elf growls. “I’m trying to get a good night’s sleep and you’re here to ruin it. Where’s your crimson menace?”

The other train compartments start to open. Two disoriented passengers stumble out and glance around, trying to find the source of the slamming. The first is a deertaur with wings, or a peryton, whose coat is slowly fading to gray. Her white hair is cut into a simple white bob, and despite her hooves starting to pale with old age, they shine. A coat of gloss covers them.

The other passenger seems to be a werewolf. He’s the only one close to our group’s age, so I immediately seize up. Damien and Oz told me that the people on these trains were on the tail end of middle aged or elders. People way out of Expedition: Underworld’s age range. The likelihood of getting recognized was slim. But this guy has to be somewhere in his twenties. If he says my name Elise will know something is up.

_ There are a lot of shows out there. _ I think. _ There’s a chance he’s never heard of me. _

His sleepy eyes land on me.

“Hey,” he squints. “Have we met before?”

_ Shit. _I wish I had my hoodie.

I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure we haven’t.”

“Hmm,” he yawns. “My mistake.”

I relax as he rubs his eyes, too sleepy to challenge my assertion. Stretching, he scans all of us, surprisingly mellow for someone who was just woken up.

“Not to be aggressive dudes, but like, why are you slamming doors out here? It’s still night,” he asks.

“Yes.” The peryton puts her hands on her hips. Judging from her scowl, she’s a lot less forgiving. “This is a sleeper car, not a rodeo.”

Keebler points at us. “These three were ambling out here, yelling and slamming doors open and closed.”

“You’re the one that slammed the door dear,” Elfennie corrects him from inside their compartment. There’s a tenseness to her voice that wasn’t present when her husband barked at Damien this morning. Being tired probably cuts down on her tolerance.

“W-We’re sorry,” Oz speaks up. “It’s just a member of our group disappeared. He’s the red demon and has a broken horn. H-Have any of you seen him?”

“I totally saw him go in that direction.” The werewolf says. He points to the end of the hallway opposite towards the lounge.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where exactly he was heading, would you?” I question.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I just saw him because I was looking at the sky earlier, and I saw his shadow pass over my compartment window. But he definitely went over there dudes, I swear on the bodacious moon.”

“Thank you,” I say. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

The werewolf digs in his pants pocket until he pulls out a pamphlet. As he unfolds it, I realize it’s for the train. He turns it around, and points at a map of the train towards the end.

“You can have my train explainer whatever. I don’t really need it but it might help you,” he offers.

“Thank you, you’re very kind.” Elise smiles as she takes it from him.

He smiles back at her, a dopey look in his eyes. “You’re welcome Miss. Maybe you can make it up to me tomorrow.”

Before Elise can respond, he bounds back into his compartment, closing the door awkwardly behind himself.

Elise blinks in surprise, before tugging on Oz’s shirt, an uncertain look on her face. “Was he flirting with me?”

Oz facepalms. “Oh my gods Elise.”

The werewolf’s departure sparks the rest of the passengers’. The peryton turns to leave, but not before giving Keebler a withering glare.

“Try to be less noisy sir,” she says to Keebler, angrily trotting back inside.

Keebler sputters and looks back at his wife for backup. But Elfennie has already fallen back asleep. Looking embarrassed, he toddles back inside, slowly closing the door behind him.

Oz squints at the map over Elise’s shoulder. “The Boss skipped lunch and dinner, so if he walked off deeper into the train, he was probably looking for alcohol.”

“Damien’s first instinct when he’s hungry would be to get a drink?” I ask. 

“If there’s no food around, yes,” Oz answers. 

They continue to stare at the map, confusion clouding their expression.

“I don’t understand this at all.”

I walk over behind Elise and lean down to see the map for myself. Frowning, I immediately see why Oz is so confused. Instead of being plotted out on a rectangle that resembles the length of the train, the pamphlet map seems to be drawn within a thin triangular shape.

“Whose idea was this?” I glower.

“It’s not that hard,” Elise says. “You just have to superimpose a rectangle on top of it in your mind. See here at the bottom? That’s the lounge. Then there are the compartments above it on either side. That pale box in the middle of them implies that there’s a storage niche, not a room, which is probably tripping you two up. The lighter lines imply that it’s in the same area but not on the same level as the compartments.”

“Oh,” Oz realized. “I was starting to think there might be a lounge on the other side of the train with a storage compartment in the middle. Which didn’t make sense because why would they have an entire other set of compartments so far away from the entrance when there aren’t that many people.”

“I thought the map was telling us the storage niche was filling up the entire hallway so you couldn’t actually enter the compartments on either side,” I explain.

“Yeah, it’s not the most thought out,” she admits.

Oz and I follow Elise’s lead as she walks towards the end of the hall and slides open the hall. Looking at the map, she proceeds gingerly, trying not to forget where we are in the map’s strange layout.”

“I’m glad we’re finally away from the compartments,” Oz says. “I didn’t want anyone getting mad at us.”

“I doubt it takes much for Kebbler to get mad at anything,” I gripe.

“This should be it!’ Elise announces. “The map says this is where the alcohol is kept cool.”

She stops in front of a metal door and attempts to pull it. The tendons in her hands strain, and her attempt to enter the room are reduced to a series of grunts.

“Let me,” I offer. 

I grip the door handle and easily pull back with my vampiric strength, letting the door fly back towards its hinges. I keep it open with my foot.

Elise begins what seems to be a “thank you”, when Oz loudly chokes. Their pale eyes widen as they stumble backwards, their hands clutching at the space above their heart. Elise and I register what they see half a second later, my back going taunt as Elise slaps her hands over her mouth.

Damien is splayed across the ground, his head wet with vodka and his own blood. The two commingle in a puddle around his body. Glass shards are scattered from his chin to his horns, with a few strays piercing his skin.

Somehow, it’s not the most gruesome sight in the room. Only a few paces in front of Damien lies a mangled body. It’s arms and legs are crimped, bending up and down and side to side far too many times before each joint. If their hands had been forced through the same gruesome process is impossible to tell. They, along with the corpse’s head were gone, leaving their wrists and neck to be bloody stumps.

Oz rushed forward with a cry, diving downwards to cradle Damien’s head. Elise follows after them, pointing out the subtle rise and fall of Damien’s chest, assuring Oz that Damien hasn’t met the same fate as the corpse next to him.

My heart starts to race in my chest, a mixture of concern and paranoia. Without any medical knowledge, it’s impossible to tell how bad Damien’s injury is, or how long he’s been out. In the best case scenario, he has a concussion, and in the worst he’s going to be dealing with some serious brain damage. Vodka bottle glass can be _ thick _. And the same person who did that to him was roaming around the train, possibly waiting to do the same thing to the rest of us. With the realization comes a morbid sense of excitement. It’s akin to the same feeling I had with the woman in the closet in Cairo, and a thousand different adventures across the world. Damien and the unnamed corpse’s attacker need to be identified as soon as possible. The main staff are locked in the front of the train until morning, expecting us to stay in our compartments after curfew, leaving us all alone. Anything can happen between now and then. We’ll have to fend for ourselves, scour the train for any hints of who the assailant can be, and brace ourselves. Adrenaline pumps through my veins.

“Smith?” Elise breaks me out of my thoughts. “You look a little intense? Kinda like in the hospital? Do you need to sit down?”

Guilt breaks me out of my trance. 

“I’m fine. Just stunned,” I lie.

I need to keep myself in check. This isn’t like Cairo or the show where I can get ahead of myself and come out unscratched. The situation we’re all in is deadly. Lives are in the balance. I can’t treat this as another adventure. I remind myself that I’m in no place to be acting out, even if things were less dangerous. I’m not like LaVey, who can act however he wants whenever he wants and get away with it. As much as I hated my parents, there is something to be said of maintaining a certain image, and acting like a crime obsessed BBC Sherlock definitely didn’t fit the image of the de Lioncourts. On TV, I can reason away any eccentricities as a role. People don’t doubt my boisterous attitude in public, but they probably didn’t think I would dive into some of the extremes I have on Expedition: Underworld if I wasn’t getting paid. The de Lioncourt name isn’t well known among regular people, but it’s passed along a lot in upper circles, and if I jeopardize the name too much in their eyes, I risked losing the help that helped me get the family estate in order when all the responsibilities were dumped on me.

My reasoning with myself manages to successfully smother my fervor, and Damien comes back into focus. Oz is bawling hysterically, and looks like they’re on the edge of another anxiety attack. Elise is trying to help, placing her hand on Oz’s chest to remind them to steady their breathing. But her frantic attention is split between them and the mangled corpse just a few paces away.

I crouch down and gently wriggle my arms behind Damien’s knees and arms. Oz tries to say something, but they’re cut off by a sudden fit of choking. 

“Oz? Oz?” Elise must feel something under her hand that I don’t, because her voice slowly starts to turn more frantic.

“We’re going to move him towards the lounge so he can lie on something comfortable instead of crumpled up in this cold room,” I promise. “It’ll be easier to elevate his head there.”

Oz lets out another choking noise that sounds close enough to a yes that I feel comfortable slowly picking up Damien. Elise mouths “we’ll go get water” in a way that looks like she’s trying to give Oz busy work. Letting Oz lean on her, she guides them across the hallway towards the bathrooms as I make a sharp right.

I’m not exactly a small man, so as I hurry back through the compartment hallways, my pounding feet manage to wake everyone up again. Elfeenie is the first person to poke her head out, and her subsequent gasp makes Keebler the second. I hear the werewolf let out a faint “duuuuuude” behind me as I enter the lounge and gently set Damien down on a lounge seat. They trickle into the room behind me looking wary, except for the peryton, who immediately strides up to Damien. Before I can ask her to step back, she hushes me.

“I’m a doctor, move,” she orders, pressing her hand against my chest. Her lithe arm doesn’t have enough strength to make me stumble back, but the fierceness in her eyes tells me if I don’t pretend she might just bite my head off.

I recede, watching her check to make sure I’ve properly supported Damien’s head. I notice that the rest of the passengers have joined us, nervously milling around at the doorway, their gazes transfixed on Damien’s compromised body.

“What happened?” Elfeenie asks.

I pause, wondering how I can answer without sending everyone into hysterics. I consider using my vampiric gaze to make them just calmly return to their compartments, but that would still leave them unprepared for whoever is prowling around.

_ All I can do is say it slowly and hope it softens the shock. _I think.

“My friends and I happened to find our missing member in the alcohol freezer,” I start.

Keebler rolls his eyes. “What a --”

“His head was surrounded by glass from a broken bottle, bleeding, and he’s currently in a state of unconsciousness,” I interrupt. “Based on the other things around him, it doesn’t look like he accidentally knocked himself out while trying to reach a vintage. I think he was assaulted because of what he saw.”

The mood instantly changes. Among startled gasps, the group immediately fans out from each other, suspicion glinting in their eyes. Keebler firmly clasps his hands on Elfeenie’s shoulders, eyes darting back between the werewolf and I. The former backs up into a booth, looking like he’s trying not to curl up into a ball and tuck his head under his tail. Keebler’s lip trembles, a lingering bit of doubt on his face, but before he can put his thoughts into words, Elfeenie speaks up.

“What do you mean by what he saw?” Elfeenie asks, voice hushed.

The peryton glances up at me from her work, clearly just as interested about how her patient became incapacitated as everyone else. I take a deep breath, and try to keep my voice as soothing as possible.

“Along with our friend, we happened to find someone else who also seemed to have been caught off guard,” I say.

“Why didn’t you bring them in here?” The werewolf speaks up, his voice shaking with an apprehension that reveals he already knew the answer to his question won’t be good.

I raise my hands in what I hope is a calming enough gesture.

“Unfortunately, that other individual was deceased.”

The other passengers go from suspicious to screaming 

“Holy shit man, are you serious? Are you serious?” The werewolf gets up and begins to frantically pace in circles like a dog that just heard the vacuum cleaner turn on.

_ “Oh my gods!” _ Elfeenie wails. “Someone get the stewards.”

The doctor doesn’t say anything, but her face pales considerably and she has to steady her hands to keep them from shaking. Keebler pats Elfeenie’s back a little too hard as she turns around and buries her face in his chest, distracted by her suggestion.

“The stewards aren’t available.” His voice trembles. “They locked up the staff service rooms that weren’t being used and the front car to enforce curfew. They’re going to be in there until morning. We’re all alone back here.”

I force myself not to physically grimace as everyone’s voices grow more and more panicked. I’ve made that mistake before and considering everyone around me said it looked like I looked like I wanted to murder someone, this is _ definately _not the time for it.

Footsteps approach and the room goes dead silent. Despite how frenzied the atmosphere was a few seconds ago, everyone has managed to go as stiff as a statue, too caught off guard to do anything else. I wonder how fast I can lunge towards the potential murderer before they can pull out a weapon. 

Two white eyes appear out of the darkness first, Oz’s dark form blending into the shadows. Shakily, they step into the lounge. In their hands is a cup of water from the shelves in the bathroom. The surface of the water is trembling with Oz’s hands. Elise emerges behind them, rubbing comforting circles into their back.

Everyone untenses. Elfeenie slumps in Keebler’s arms like her legs have turned to jelly, and the werewolf goes back to his circling. The doctor takes in Oz’s demeanor, hand on Damien’s head.

“Am I about to get another patient?” She asks.

“Not at all! Oz and I just took a relaxing walk to the bathroom, and took deep breaths to make sure our hearts were steady, and then we got some water.” Elise sounds like she’s trying to assure Oz more than the doctor.

“W-We g-got, w-water,” Oz repeats, holding it out. “Y-you look l-like a d-doctor so h-here you go.”

The peryton takes it in one of her hands, looking bewildered.

“Do you want me to drink this? Or do you want me to use it to clean your friend up? I could . . . set it aside for him later, I guess?”

Oz goes still, and at first I think they’re starting to calm down. Then their trembling starts up again, even harder than before, and they fall to their knees, bawling.

“The Boss got assaulted and I didn’t even _ know _ ! I-I wasn’t even there! What if he never wakes up, a-and I become some idiot that somehow never said what they wanted to even though they had a chance every single day? I’m such a _ coward _, so he probably would’ve told me to shut up anyway.”

Elise winces, diving down to the ground to take one of Oz’s hands in her own. Patting it, she gently shushes them.

“Oz don’t say that about yourself. This was no one’s fault, and if you keep blaming yourself you’re going to drive your pulse up again.”

“Indeed, it already looks like you’ve had an anxiety attack, and I don’t need another ailment when I’m already dealing with head trauma.”

The doctor reaches for Oz and pulls them away from Elise, before gently setting them down across from Damien in the booth. Before Oz can panic at the sight of their unconscious boss, she launches into an assessment of Damien’s health.

“Your employer is going to be fine, so there’s no need to cry. We’ve got his head elevated, the bleeding has stopped and his heartbeat is moving at a steady rate, so it’s not as if he’s at death’s door.”

“Really?” Oz sniffs.

“Yes, I’ve worked on demons in the past and they have fairly thick skulls, so I’m fairly sure that he’s not going to have any brain damage. However, he’s definitely walking away from this with a concussion. He still needs to be monitored for any changes, I can’t be a hundred percent sure of anything without any equipment, but he’s doing fairly good right now.”

She gestures to Damien’s head, and I notice she’s ripped off the sleeve of her nightgown, using it as a makeshift bandage. 

“Look for yourself,” she orders crisply.

Oz leans across the table to look at Damien, who looks uncharacteristically peaceful as his chest rises and falls. Not being conscious enough to glower or cuss probably helped. His facial expressions didn’t give away any pain, though there was the chance that would change when he woke up.

Still, Damien’s placid appearance seems to calm Oz, and Elise takes the chance to keep the ball rolling.

“We can use the water to clean up his face,” she tells Oz. “Let me find something.”

Keebler, who had been oddly quiet, eyes Elise suspiciously. “You’re laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“If I had to pick someone suspicious that was behind this, it would be you, and you're obviously trying to cover your ass,” he accuses.

“What?” Elise recoils.

“I know my Elfy and I weren’t behind this, and I saw the doctor over there and the werewolf walk out of their compartments for the first time when we were all out in the hallways. The sobbing one definitely doesn’t have it in them, so that leaves you. It would explain that strange book you were writing in yesterday. You were probably plotting!” He barks. 

I step in front of him as he lets go of his wife to stride towards Elise.

“If you’re going to go off of who you witnessed walk out of their compartments, shouldn’t you also be on your list? What,” I look down at him. “Too afraid to point the finger at me?”

Keebler flushes, stepping back as my shadow looms over him. The doctor clears her throat.

“This is no time to be making haphazard accusations,” I state. “Our circumstances are dangerous, and if we don’t think every step through clearly we don’t know what it leads to.”

Elise smiles gratefully, “Thanks Smith.”

“The only way to draw up any plausible theories is to go back to the freezer and see if we can find clues,” I voice.

“But won’t that like, destroy the integrity of the crime scene man?” The werewolf whimpers. “What about when the train comes to a stop and police get onboard?”

“If we don’t have enough information to survive tonight, there won’t be anyone to tell the police.” I say without thinking.

A different sort of silence than before everyone could see Oz and Elise settles over the room. That silence emanated terror, with everyone in the lounge unprepared to fight someone. This was heavier; it wasn’t so much like a bunch of deer had gotten caught in the headlights. This feels like grim acceptance, with everyone trying to come up with another solution before resigning with dread that there isn’t one.

_ Dammit, that was shitty. _ I think. _ You’ve been charming before. Your job is basically to be charming. Tone it down. Is anyone even going to want to go back to the freezer with me? I can’t do this alone. _

“Make sure that his shoulders and head stays elevated. If his breathing changes come and find me. If he wakes up while I’m gone, _ run _to find me.”

Turning my head, I see the doctor drilling instructions into Oz’s head. They nod along, moving onto the booth table to be closer to Damien. They’ve begun to tremble again, though it’s far less noticeable than before, and they still seem to have their composure. As the doctor turns and approaches me, Oz picks up the cup of water they and Elise brought, taking the latter's suggestion to heart as they start to clean Damien’s face.

Trotting up to me, the doctor stiffly holds out her hand, gesturing for me to take it. I have bend down to reach it, but she acts like she’s the one towering over me.

“You can address me as Dr. Whitetail,” she continues. “We’re going to be talking to each other a lot tonight. I’m the best thing we have to a pathologist or a coroner. Come along, show me this freezer so we can get this gruesome exercise over with.”

Dr. Whitetail twaps my leg, looking like a cranky older relative who's been left waiting. Her decision rouses everyone else out of their somber stupor.

“Y-Yes,” Keebler speaks up. “Let’s see this . . . other individual, and see if the scene is half as bad as your claim.”

Elfeenie looks like checking out a body is the last thing she wants to do. But as her husband begins to move she’s far too terrified to be left alone, so she hesitantly trailed after. I glance over at the werewolf and jerk my head, silently asking him if he’s going to the group congregating to follow my lead. He looks at the booth Damien is in.

“You’re all going? So it’ll just be me, Oz and her?” He points to Elise.

Elise walks up next to me. “I’m going with Smith too.”

He grimaces, looking at Damien again before slinking over. It seems less like he wants to help look for clues and more like he doesn’t want to be left alone with Oz and an unconscious Damien in case the attacker comes back.

I walk out of the lounge, the other passengers following me like the world’s most fucked up field trip group. Elise pats me comfortingly on the arm as we travel down the hallway.

“Huh?” 

“Your jaw looks kinda tense and your eyes are kind of severe, so I just wanted to say that everything will be okay. I know that sounds like a bit of empty sentiment, but worrying won’t get us anywhere. Don’t be nervous,” she assures me.

Just like with Oz, Elise sounds more like she’s just trying to convince someone than genuinely believing in her words. But it’s a kind assurance, and her attempt to smile encouragingly at me is touching. I think about all she’s done so far tonight. 

_ I remember telling Oz that “this situation is . . . complicated.” But does that matter, really, if we’re still using someone like this at the end of the day? _ Something I can’t name tightens in my chest. _ I want to see Liam again but . . . _

I can’t finish the thought. Even though deceiving Elise is becoming more and more uncomfortable, I still can’t think of another way to get close to Liam. I haven’t seen my older brother in years, and this is my best shot.

_ You made your decision, just live with it. _I order myself.

I stop in front of the freezer door, hand hovering over the handle. I look back at the group, speaking softly in an attempt to brace them.

“I want to warn you that the person in here isn’t just dead. They’re not pale and silent. Their bones have been broken in multiple places. They are also missing a couple of . . . pieces.”

“Oh my gods, oh my gods, oh my gods,” Elfeenie covers her face, and starts to rock back and forth on her feet.

“I don’t think anyone here will judge you if you want to go back to the lounge.”

I scan everyone over, seeing my fierce expression reflected in their eyes. I hope it manages to be comforting. My go to for soothing crowds is usually a big red carpet smile, but that’s not going to work right now.

The door creaks as I open it. Elise walks in first, knowing what to expect, with Dr. Whitetail on her heels. The doctor sighs and slowly closes her eyes, pinching her fingers over her nose as she mutters something under her breath. As a doctor she’s probably seen gruesome things before, which explains why she’s not screaming, but the scene is still heinous enough for her to be disturbed.

A loud wet gurgle works it’s way up Keebler’s throat before he violently vomits on the ground. Even though his eyes are pointed downwards, I can see his pupils are shaking, and he tilts like he might lose his balance. Elfeenie, who only moved her hands enough so she could see Keebler’s reaction to gauge how bad things look, grabs his hand and dashes out, never seeing the body. I can hear her hyperventilating as they run back towards the lounge.

Holding his ground, the werewolf stays, eyes trained on the body. He looks shaken but the warning in the hallway seems to have managed to prepare him.

“Well,” Dr. Whitetail breaks the silence. “Without their head and hands we can’t visually identify them.”

“Yeah no shit,” Elise snaps. 

Dr. Whitetail shoots her a look but doesn’t say anything. When there’s a corpse around, everyone gets some slack. I frown, Elise’s voice sounding familiar.

_ Of course it sounds familiar. _ I tell myself. _ It’s Elise’s voice and you know her. _

The thought makes sense, and there’s no reason to dwindle on it. But something is wrong about the conclusion. I realize her voice is a little deeper, and she’s speaking a bit slower, making her Southern accent more noticeable.

_ She sounds like she did earlier. _I remember Elise sinking in her booth seat this morning, irritated, tired sounding and antisocial.

_ Well I can’t judge her for getting tense again. _I reason. She seemed to be fine when she was comforting Oz, but maybe it is all starting to get to her.

“They’re obviously a steward though, so we know that the murderer is one of the other stewards,” she asserts.

The body is wearing a steward uniform. As Dr. Whitetail crouches down to examine the stumps, I try to figure out where the second half of her conclusion came from.

“Ah.” It finally clicks. “This has to have happened after the stewards started curfew, or else one of them would’ve found the body when they were taking stock of all the rooms for the night. And since we know it’s after curfew, that means all of the stewards would’ve been in the front of the train. None of the passengers have any way to access that area, so it has to be someone in there who did and then dragged a body out to the freezer.”

Elise nods. Dr. Whitetail clears her throat.

“I think we can also safely say that it isn’t one of the chefs.” She cuts in. “Look at how this flesh is torn.”

Elise and I scoot closer and follow the direction of her finger with our eyes. The smell of blood hits my nose. My muscles tense on instinct, and the tips of my fangs feel dry. The impulse to feed is weak, but the physical reaction brings back some of the dark thrill from earlier. I touch my face, trying to make sure it doesn’t show through my expression.

_ Stay composed. _I order myself.

“The edges where the missing parts were rended from the rest of the body are incredibly rough.” Dr. Whitetail’s analysis breaks through my quiet panic. “The hack job goes beyond the length of the cut though. Look down at the width.”

I gaze at one of the stumps. Past the jagged up and down where the murderer began to cut, the muscle from the front of the body to the back is bumpy. It looks like either the knife had trouble cutting all the way through, or the murderer wasn’t strong enough to push it all the way down and kept hacking at the same space over and over.

“So we know it isn’t one of the chefs,” Dr. Whitetail concludes. “They would know how to cut through meat.”

Elise bursts out laughing. I look at both of them incredulously.

“That’s a dark joke, don’t you think?” 

Dr. Whitetails gives a small smile. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

I turn to Elise. “I didn’t think this was your sort of humor ‘Miss Don’t Even Joke About Being Terrible’.”

She wipes the tears of mirth away from her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The impulse to smother all of my fervor weakens. Dr. Whitetail and Elise don’t seem like the sort of company that would immediately think that there would be something off if I became more animated about this. Or at least, the situation we’re all in has seems to have made them more tolerant of the macabre then they would usually be.

_ I could be more expressive with this group. _ I consider cautiously. _ I just need to remember to be respectful and responsible not to get carried away. _

“U-um,” the werewolf awkwardly clears his throat. “What if whoever did it dragged them into the freezer to slow down decomposition?”

“Oh yeah you’re here,” Elise deadpans.

“We’re sorry young man. You were so quiet we forgot to ask your thoughts. What were you saying about decomposition?” Dr. Whitetail asks.

“Well when my family goes out hunting, sometimes we’ll pull all of our kills into a cold cave until we’re ready to drag it all home. If it’s too hot outside it can start baking in the sun and start to reek,” he explains.

“That makes sense. If this psycho's Chucky audition started to reek a bunch of people might follow the smell and stumble upon the body,” Elise says.

“But Damien ended up coming across it anyway, by complete coincidence. So they panicked and brained him over the head for it,” I guess. 

“Speaking of,” Dr. Whitetail grunts. She slowly rises to her hooves, wincing as some of her joints pop.

“I’m going to check in on him now. I have no doubt that your friend would’ve come running for me if something went wrong, but I should see if he’s gotten any better. I’ll be back in a short moment.”

We watch her leave. Sticking around the corpse in a morbid powwow, Elise eventually breaks the silence with a loud sigh.

“What’s your name anyway?” she asks the werewolf.

“Timber,” he responds.

His reveal lights the bundle of zeal that has been building up since Elise’s laughter. A question hits me, not all that groundbreaking objectively speaking, but with the leash on my inclinations loosened it makes me spasm. My body knows that I’m about to get the chance to probe and dissect to my heart’s content. I look down at the corpse.

“What’s _ their _name?” 

I remember our stewardess had a metal name tag in art deco pinned over her breast pocket, along with the other stewards, but the body doesn’t seem to have one at all. Methodically, I search the deceased, gently rolling up their sleeves to see if they stashed it in one, and straighten them back. Patting their chest doesn’t reveal any secret pockets so I continue to their pants. They’re both empty so I gently begin to untie their shoes. The right reveals nothing when I turn it over, but I hit the jackpot on the left. I scoop up the nametag and fist it in my hand.

“Why did they put it in there?” Elise asks.

“I don’t know,” my heart races. “But we’re going to find out.”

I stand up and frantically gesture at Elise and Timber to follow me. I hover in the hallway, my eyes flitting to all the doors that could lead to a room with a lead on the nametag. There are so many choices I don’t know where to start, and the pounding of blood in my ears is making it difficult to hear my own thoughts.

Elise fists the back of my shirt. Her expression is anxious, but she keeps her voice flat and “uninvolved” sounding.

“Hey Sherlock, I know we said we were going to come down here for clues, but shouldn’t we check each room before barging into them? If you forgot, there's a murderer on the loose and I think it might be kind of shitty if we close a door behind us and they immediately lunge out of a corner to peel off our skins and wear them as suits.”

“And I don’t think we should continue without Dr. Whitetail,” Timber adds.

I almost roll my eyes at them, but I remember my promise to myself to be respectable and responsible. Guilt gnaws at me over my knee-jerk response, so I follow Elise’s lead as we slowly go from door to door, creaking each a sliver to see if there’s anyone inside, poised at the ready if our eyes meet the killer’s. 

We don’t see anyone.

“They must’ve gone back to the front,” Elise deduces. “Or they’re a ghost and can turn invisible, in which case we’re fucked.”

“If they’ve gone back to the front then we’re on a tight deadline before they come back. Let’s go get Dr. Whitetail,” I suggest.

We run back towards the lounge, Timber taking the lead. He’s been handling this well, but I think he’s eager to take a break in a room that’s not covered with fluids. He gets to the door first, so the gasp he lets out causes Elise and I to skid to a stop behind him. Before we can ask him if the killer got in the lounge while we were gone, he throws the door open. 

“Dudes, your friend is awake!”

Damien sits up in the booth, Oz ecstatically rocking back and forth by his side. He says something to Dr. Whitetail before he spots us in the doorway. He looks at us with a sort of flustered irritation, like he’s mad at himself for going unconscious and embarrassed that he has to be nursed.

“Alright, fill me in fuckwagons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original plan was to put the entire train story in this chapter, but I realized that I had already made you guys wait way too long for an update. And honestly this single chapter was getting long.


	12. The Train Pt. III - Oz

I can’t tell if my rocking is because I’m happy The Boss is awake, or if it’s because I’m trying to keep myself from having another anxiety attack. My chest still aches from the wild heart palpitations Elise walked me through, and my lungs still feel raw from choking over and over again earlier. Right now my body feels exhausted, and I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason why it hasn’t launched into another attack. Maybe if I keep moving it’ll stay that way.

It’s not difficult to keep up. Seeing The Boss’s golden eyes crack open sent an undercurrent of energy racing through my mind despite my sore body. Dr. Whitetail told me he would be fine, but it was hard to actually believe her before he started moving again. Him being more irritated that someone got the drop on him instead of caring about the murderer we told him about is so distinctly Damien LaVey that I start to actually believe he’s going to fine for the first time. His eyes drift towards the doorway, and he suddenly blushes, going from irritated to a mix of irritation and being flustered. I follow his gaze and perk up as Virgil and Elise walk in with the werewolf.

The Boss scrambles to regain his usually composure. “Alright, fill me in fuckwagons.”

“Well,” Elise starts dryly. She holds out her arms, the oversized nightshirt she borrowed from Virgil hanging loosely on her body. Blood is smeared across the sleeves. “We’re not sure but we think someone was murdered.”

She has the same tired, sort of cranky look she had this morning. Her face isn’t as soft as it was when she was helping me calm down, and despite her impassively sarcastic tone, her eyes flit around the lounge with anxious energy.

_ Everything is probably starting to get to her. _ I sympathize. _ I’ve known what that feels like way too many times tonight. _

  
  


“I know that,” The Boss retorts. “The doc and Oz filled me in on everything that’s happened. What did you find when you were left with that body?”

“Nothing more than we already told you about Mr. LaVey. I did a very comprehensive inspection,” Dr. Whitetail says.

“We did find something new actually,” Virgil announces.

He steps forward and unfurls his fist. A nametag rests in his big palm, with the name Noa in art deco font. He has a focused, subtly excited expression on his face, like an excavator who's just found the tip of a treasure chest peaking out of the ground.

“What, you’re trying to tell me you can’t spell your own name Smith?” The Boss turns his face away.

If the comment bothers him, Virgil doesn’t show it. “We found it in the shoe of the murder victim.”

Everyone in the lounge stops. Ever since The Boss started laying on the booth seat, the frantic energy turned a bit more quietly apprehensive. But there’s something in Virgil’s voice that raises a new expectation. I don’t see how a nametag is going to say anything, but the way he says it makes it feel like the most important thing in the world.

Then again, I’ve spent the last several hours having a fit, seeing a dead body, and thinking the love of my life was dying, so maybe I’m just woozy.

“Since it belongs to the murder victim, we can search around the train for clues connected to the name,” Elise adds, fidgeting with her hands. “Depending on where they come from, we might be able to figure out who did this.”

The werewolf points to himself with his thumbs, trying to seem laidback. “This good boy has a pretty good nose, so I’m going to help.”

“And you came back to get me.” Dr. Whitetail infers. “I’m afraid I’m actually going to end up opting out. I’m putting this one under observation.”

As Dr. Whitetail gestures at The Boss, I focus on his face again and try not to visibly reel back when I see his eyes are shining. 

_ The Boss? Crying in public? _I ogle. With him throwing off his attack and the murder like it’s nothing, there’s nothing on this train that can make The Boss fearful, much less morose enough to sob.

Suddenly, it clicks into place. The nametag stops looking like a nametag as my stomach churns. Their faces all flash through my head: Vera, Miranda, Scott, Calculester, and Amira.

“Boss,” I murmur. I take his hand in mine. “I . . .”

“I’m fine.” He turns his face away again. “Just something in my eye. Uh, that sounds like a great idea you two. You should take Oz with you.”

The Boss shoots me a pointed look and I deflate. _ Does he really feel like he can’t get emotional in front of me? What happened? _

I try to find some excuse to stay, but without the fear of The Boss being severely harmed or possibly not waking up, none of them are really good. To my embarrassment, Dr. Whitetail gives me a pitying, knowing glance.

_ Great, even people who don’t know what’s going on know I’m being sent away like a lapdog. _

I stand up, trying not to look crushed. Elise and Virgil drift over, stopping to check on The Boss before they go.

“You’re going to be okay? How bad is it? What did Dr. Whitetail say? How do you feel?” Elise fidgets, her eyes looking everywhere but The Boss.

“Hey, hey, slow down, I’m going to be fucking fine. Don’t start shitting your pants now. Oz . . . told me that you helped them. That you helped them manage their panic attack so it didn’t get too severe and got them back to the lounge safely. Thanks.”

The Boss’s voice is sincere, catching me off guard. It’s not like he hates her or anything, but I haven’t forgotten one of the reasons we’re all going on this trip together. Virgil and I talked about not that that long ago. Guilt mixes with the shame of The Boss forcing me out the room.

“You’re welcome,” she says stiffly.

The Boss leans over and punches Virgil’s arm with enough strength that he actually stumbles backwards. My heart skips a beat as his face splits into a pointy grin. I think it’s the first time he’s managed to catch Virgil off guard physically.

“And Dr. Whitetail said you carried me back here. I never thought I’d have to thank you jackass,” he says affectionately.

“Technically, you still haven’t,” Virgil points out.

“Anyway,” The Boss smirks. “I hope you can be as useful tracking down the bitch that had the nerve to attack two people before pussying out and trying to hide. I already know doc over here is going to say I need to rest or whatever, so unfortunately I can’t help you.”

“Actually,” Virgil sniffs the air around The Boss. “I think you’ve already helped us. Your blood isn’t the only kind that’s on your body.”

Damien’s eyebrows arch. “Real shit?”

“Oz did a good job cleaning you off, but I can still sense a second blood type in the traces left in your hair. Whoever did this must have cut themself when they attacked you. It’s weak and reeks like hard booze, so it’s pretty likely they had some sort of vitamin deficiency. We can keep an eye out for medical records while we’re searching,” Virgil declares.

He punches Damien back, though it’s careful and incredibly light. Damien scowls at the gentle treatment.

“Get better alright?” Virgil says.

The finality of his words signals our exit. I wring my hands, trying to find a way to bookend Damien’s moment of almost-vunerability other than walking out the door. Elise and Virgil start walking back towards Timber. I look down at Damien, hands growing clammy. 

_ Does he think I’m too fragile to talk right now? Just because I just had an anxiety attack doesn’t mean he has to clam up on me. I can still be emotional. I know I wasn’t there when he was attacked and I ended up freaking out so much that Virgil and Elise had to take care of things, but he knows he can still rely on me right? _

“Oz?” Virgil asks, stopping.

I lower my head without thinking, and slip my hand under Damien’s chin. He frowns, but whatever protest he planned on offering is swallowed by my mouth as I press mine to his. His lips are dry; it’s not like he’s gotten any chances in the last few hours to apply some chapstick. But they’re inviting and hot, and as my chin brushes against his I can feel his fierce pulse racing. Damien stiffens. I pull away with a gasp.

Damien stares at me, his face bright pink. If my heart was skipping a beat before, it’s breaking the sound barrier now, and I bolt towards the hallways before anyone can say anything else.

_ Why did I do that? Why did I do that? Why the _ ** _hell _ ** _ did I do that? _

I’m so mortified that I don’t realize the rest of the group is following me before Elise softly clears her throat.

So,” Elise drawls. “What was that about?” 

“I don’t know!” I squeal. “I wanted to show him that I could still be emotionally open after freaking out all night, and I guess that sort of got mixed with the relief of knowing he was okay and feeling shitty about breaking down about my feelings in the lounge and not owning up to them when he woke up and, and, and . . .”

“Breathe dude.” The werewolf pats me on the back.

Elise looks uncomfortable, though I can’t tell if it’s because of me or for me. 

“Do you want me to move on and start decoding the map again?” She offers.

“Please,” I wheeze.

Elise turns the pamphlet around in her hands so she can see the end. 

“Using the alcohol fridge as a starting point, I can tell that the laundry room is right across the hall from it. The bathrooms bookend that particular hallway, and the next one is where you can find the library. The movie theater is across from the library — all the entertainment is in one place, I guess that makes sense — and the kitchen is sandwiched between the fridge and one of the bathrooms. Where do y’all want to start?” She asks.

Virgil takes charge, “We should take one last lap around the alcohol freezer —”

“Actually,” Elise interrupts. “It makes more sense to visit the laundry room before the freezer again.”

“It doesn’t make sense to start a completely different line of thought before finishing the one you already started,” Virgil says.

“Yes it does,” Elise replies. “It’s like working on an essay. If you’ve been reading over your own work for an hour you’re more likely to miss spelling errors. You have to take a break and come back later.”

Virgil looks thoughtful. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

“Actually trying to make a lot of sense is the standard I try to uphold,” she sighs.

“It would be nice to sort of brace ourselves before we have to look at the b-body again,” I add.

“Laundry!” The werewolf barks, looking happy for the first time since this entire mess started.

Before he can articulate his cry, he bolts through the rest of the hallway and disappears out the door, looking like a puppy that just heard it’s owner come home from work.

“The wolfocracy has spoken,” Elise points.

Elise and Virgil don’t judge me for drifting behind them as we follow after. I’ve already freaked out once tonight, it’s not like I’ve shown any signs that I want to lead the charge. To Elise and Virgil, it probably looks like I’m just here because The Boss suggested it and I did something so embarrassing that I can’t show my face to him long enough to argue. That’s not untrue, but after realizing that I’ve already failed enough to make The Boss doubt me, I’m not going to leave the rest of the group out to dry.

_ I just need to pace myself! _ I plan. _ I’ll just b-brace myself for what can be behind the next door over and over again, s-so when we finally go in I won’t be caught off guard. I mean, it’s not like that’ll make my mental condition disappear, but it’s the best I’ve got! _

I force my back to straighten and square my shoulders as I start my repetition. _ There might be another person. There might be another person. There might be another person. _

“Uh, thanks for the night shirt,” Elise thanks Virgil. “Sorry I got murder juice all over it.”

“You already thanked me,” Virgil says.

“Really?” Elise frowns deeply. Then her eyes widen as if something has just clicked into place, and she starts to backtrack. “Uh, yeah, I did.”

“Is all of this starting to get to you?” Virgil asks.

Elise scowls. “I wouldn’t be skipping next to Batman if it was.”

“Was that a vampire jab or an investigating jab?” Virgil questions.

“Ladies choice,” Elise yawns.

Virgil arches his eyebrows. “Is this whole thing boring you?”

“No, I just don’t get an adrenaline rush from pretending to be a detective. I didn’t get any sleep at all before we went searching for Damien,” Elise explains.

As I’m reminded of The Boss laying on the floor, I add on to my repetition. _ I might see another body. I might see another body. I might see another body. _

For a second, Virgil looks panicked. But just as quickly as I see his eyes widen and his lips part, the expression disappears. Maybe I imagined it.

“I thought you and Dr. Whitetail were all for being a little lurid, considering the circumstances we’ve been forced into. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.” His expression is unreadable as he glances at Elise and I.

“I didn’t say I judged you, I just said this isn’t waking me up. Being a true crime fanatic happy to solve a mystery is better than if you revealed you were a cop junebug. You already think you’re a basic pretentious rich kid, it’d be a shame to add bastard to your list of overplayed character tropes,” Elise bites.

The fierce spark that appeared in Virgil’s eyes ever since he charged into the lounge comes back.

“I thought you were just stressed out, but I think you just might be crankier when you’re tired,” Virgil observes.

“I can’t keep my eyes completely open even though there’s a murderer running around, and you’re a little too excited about poking a corpse. I won’t tell if you won’t,” she says. 

Elise limply holds out a hand to Virgil for him to shake. The edges of his mouth quirks up as he takes it. Elise’s small hand disappears under his, before she turns to me.

“Oz, shake on our dark pact so that we may be bonded together in secrecy,” she commands.

I take it gingerly, wincing as I get a closer look at the blood that stains Virgil’s shirt.

_ I might see blood again. I might see blood again. I might see blood again. _

“Can I ask you a question?” Virgil inquires.

“Technically you already are,” Elise says.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” he corrects.

“I’m so proud of you for being assertive son,” Elise drones.

“Do you see Damien, Oz and I as your friends?”

My body seizes up in surprise. I’m not afraid of her answer but I can’t tell where he’s going with this. I stare at Virgil, willing him to look at my face so I can try and signal him ‘What are you doing?’, but he doesn’t turn around.

“If you’re asking me so you can figure out if we can use the Elements of Harmony to find the killer, I don’t think it’s going to work,” she snarks.

“I’m serious,” Virgil asserts.

Elise is quiet for so long I start to think she’s ignoring us. But just as the alcohol freezer and the laundry room come into view, she speaks up again.

“Oz is definitely my friend. I’ve known them for a while at this point, and time is a fourth of the requirements I need to meet in order to feel comfortable saying someone is my friend,” she starts.

I smile. “Thank you Elise.”

Elise cranes her neck up to study Virgil’s face. “You and Damien are trickier. I haven’t known you nearly as long, and I’ve talked with Damien the least out of all of you. But like, you both ended up on the Death Express with me, so I think you’ve both sort of speed runned the amount of time it takes me to trust someone. So yeah, I consider you friends.” 

Virgil and I meet each other’s eyes for half a second, and for the first time since he’s been in The Boss and I’s company, I see him show a clear bit of vulnerability: guilt.

_ Get in line buddy. _

The transition from Virgil’s noncommittal attitude about the plan when I woke him up to his conscience deciding to turn on now makes something click in my mind. Today he’s started trying to probe information (I’ve worked for the LaVeys for too long to not know when someone is fishing) after months of deferring to us. Now he’s changed from his noncommittal attitude of using Elise to openly showing guilt after he’s learned what she fully thinks of all of us. It seems like it takes him a while to settle on what he thinks.

Normally that wouldn’t really be something to note, but I’m not sure if slow and contemplative is the best energy to have when there’s a killer who could strike at any moment. Then again, Elise claimed that the danger we’re all in excited Virgil, so maybe this is one of the few situations where he wants to go fast, and the real thing I should be worrying about is if he’s going to be impulsive. I break into a cold sweat.

_ I might have to defend myself. I might have to defend myself. _

“Here we are,” Elise says. 

I break out of my trance to see her opening the door to the laundry room for us. We walk in to see the werewolf bent over something in the corner.

“What did you find Timber?” Virgil eagerly asks.

I note the name as Timber steps back, a huge armful of shoes cradled in his arms. A small basket sits at his feet, with a mountain of shoes piled on top of each other. The only thing that keeps them from falling over is that the basket is in a corner next to a washing machine, and the tower of footwear is leaning on it for support.

Employee Storage Space

All non-uniform footwear must be left here if you want to retain ownership of it.

“That’s demeaning,” I immediately protest. “So they throw away anything that doesn’t fit in that little basket? Why is an employee storage space so small anyway?”

“Why would you want something bigger?” Timber counters. “All of these smell great together!”

“It’s not like there’s much space for them anywhere else,” Elise observes.

The rest of the room is as small as it is crowded. Thin lockers and washing machines are all shoved together. Virgil tries to move towards the other side of the room, but his broad frame won’t fit between the sliver of space there is to manuver. He scowls.

“What are you trying to look at?” Timber asks. 

He doesn’t look like he actually cares about the answer. He’s still pawing at the shoes as if they’re toys.

Virgil earnestly points to something tacked at the end of the right wall. “I think that’s an eraser board. I want to see what it says.”

“I’ll get it,” I offer.

Virgil backs up as much as he can. I slide past him, my thin body easily fitting in the small space.

“Twinks will save this country,” Elise declares.

When I’m finally in front of the right wall, I see that Virgil is right. It is a eraser board. But what’s written on it is not much different than the shoe sign.

Act Like An Adult

All non-uniform clothing must be kept inside your locker. Any stray garments will be thrown out during routine disposal with the expired meats at the next stop.

“It’s the same thing,” I tell Virgil.

“Give me the exact wording,” he requests.

“Act like an adult. All non-uniform clothing must be kept inside your locker. Any stray garments will be thrown out during routine disposal with the expired meats at the next stop,” I recite.

“The people in charge here sound anal,” Elise scowls.

It’s not much, but Virgil’s eyes glaze over as if I’ve given him a chunk of the Rosetta Stone to decode. I slide back and glance around.

“That’s pretty much it. There’s nothing else here to really look at,” I say.

“You’re right. We should go,” Elise remarks. She takes a deep breath, as if she’s trying to cover up a sigh.

“We didn’t find anything, but I have been thinking about our suspect’s descriptors so far.” She starts to list on her fingers. “We know it can’t be one of the chefs, because the hack lines are too amateurish. It still has to one of the other types of stewards though, because only one of them would’ve had the access to take another steward out of the front after curfew. I also think that the person has to be pretty weak. It makes sense that the body was still in the freezer. The murder probably happened fast and they hadn’t decided what to do with the body yet. But Damien? You’d think after knocking Damien out, they’d drag him somewhere else in case he woke up so he couldn’t alert someone. But they ended up leaving him there. The only reason I can think of for why they would do something so risky is if they literally couldn’t avoid it.”

Virgil snaps his fingers. “That would explain the vitamin deficiency I sensed.”

“I don’t know if you two are right, but it sounds pretty smart,” Timber says.

A silhouette of a willowly stranger branding a dull knife pops into my head and makes me shiver.

“Let’s go across the hall,” I insist.

Timber drops all of the shoes, looking forlorn. But he seems to forget about his sadness the minute he sees the labels on some of the freezer’s wine bottles.

“You guys I recognize these aromas! One time I went to my friend Brad’s mansion during highschool because his parents were out of town. We raided the cellar and got drunk on like, ten bottles of merlot. We tried to do a keg stand with them but we didn’t have a hose and the necks of the bottle were too thin,” Timber recounts. 

“You used what was probably thousands of dollars in rich-people alcohol for a frat party game?” Elise criticizes.

Timber nodded sadly. “Yeah, we couldn’t find any beer.”

“So we know this is all high grade alcohol, but considering what kind of train this is that’s not really a surprise,” Virgil says.

Without any warning, he drops down on his hands. Timber, Elise and I jump at the low thud his body makes. He stares at the bottles close to his face like he’s trying to will them to spontaneously combust.

“Look through the rows. I don’t know what we’re looking for but there has to be something else here,” he bids.

I pointedly avoid looking at where I remember the body being as we fan out. I know I’ll have to look at it again eventually, but nothing is going to keep me from putting it off until the last moment. As I walk over to a row I trip over something lumpy. I flinch.

_ You’re probably going to have to look down at the body again at some point. You’re probably going to have to look down at the body again at some point. _

Shaking out my foot, I settle near a top row. Timber does the same while Elise goes at the middle; she’s not tall enough to reach any higher.

_ “Got it!” _ Virgil booms a couple of minutes later. 

He rolls over to look at us, smiling toothily. Raised above his head like a victory flag is a shiny green bottle with a big bow. A note dangles from it. We all drift over as Virgil starts to read.

“Surprise Carl! Now that you can drink from the freezer with the big cats, me and the rest of management decided to make a recommendation. This is a 1920s chardonnay imported from Dionysus’s fields in Venice. Of course, you can have your pick of the stuff in here now, but we wanted to show how much we appreciate all the new ideas you’ve started implementing by showing you something we know will do you good. White wines like this can have a lot of sugar, so now that you can afford it lets put some meat on your bones.”

Timber makes a face. “Cats? I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“It seems like an unrelated promotion if you ask me. If this is the only thing to find in here then this has been a waste of time,” Elise complains.

Virgil doesn’t seem to agree. He frantically drums his fingers against the bottle, the gears clearly turning in his head.

“No, no, this means something. You guys can go ahead. I’m going to go over the body one more time,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you in a second.”

Relief washes over me. I won’t have to look at the corpse again after all.

“Fine with me. Oz, Timber, come on. Lets check out the bathrooms,” Elise directs.

I feel a rush of shame as we head towards them. Elise calmed me down there, and gave me busy work so I didn’t completely lose my mind. 

_ That’s twice I owe this person I’m using. Once for calling the ambulance, and a second time for aftercare. _

“Maybe the killer planned to throw away the guy in one of the big trashcans?” Timber theorizes. “That’s the first thing I think of when I want to clean up a mess.”

“That won’t work,” I say. “The trash cans are pretty big, but they’re not huge enough the first the entire . . . you know. They’re also electronic and only let certain things be thrown away. I’m pretty sure _ that _is not one of the approved items.”

“Besides, it’s way too obvious,” Elise adds. “If the next person who used the bathroom didn’t see it, they would definitely smell it.”

Timber’s tail went limp. “Oh, sorry.”

“It was a nice try,” I comfort him.

It starts to wag again. “Thanks! What do you think?”

He looks at Elise hopefully. She shrugs noncommitedly. He huffs.

When we open the door to the left bathroom, I can’t help but think it looks a lot less harsher than earlier. In my panic, the lights were as bright as the sun, and the color of the walls were so intense I could barely concentrate on the cups by the sinks. 

Now, the soft glow of the dimmer lights makes the space feel warm and inviting. The wallpaper has intricate roses in black and white. The copper mirrors look fashionable instead of disorienting, and the matching sinks that look like tiny clawfoot bathtubs are adorable.

“Why don’t you check the other bathroom Timber? Oz and I will cover this one,” Elise suggests.

The second we’re left alone, Elise awkwardly puts her hand on my shoulder and clears her throat.

“Just checking in. Are you doing okay . . . bud?” She asks. “Sorry, I’m not exactly great at comforting people.”

I smile at her. “You were great at it earlier. Don’t worry, I’m handling myself.”

Elise falters. She removes her hand. “Yes, I was. Let’s move on then.”

Elise and I inspect the sinks. Nothing looks off about the cups, and the only new things I didn’t notice before are some small bottles of lotion in case the soap dries out people’s hands. Elise ducks under the counter and sighs.

“Hoping that someone left graffiti under a bunch of bougie sinks was probably a stupid wish.” 

“What about that door over there?” I point. 

Her eyes land on the unassuming door next to the end of the stalls. “I think that’s just a storage closet.”

“It can’t hurt to check,” I say.

I go up to it and jiggle the doorknob. It stutters in place, the lock keeping it from being opened.

“If Smith was here he could probably just force it open with his vampire strength.” Elise complains. “But he’s not, and I don’t have a paper clip, so I guess I’m going to be going back to bed with bruised knuckles.”

Before I can ask her what she means, Elise manuevers herself under the knob at an angle. Holding her fists under her chin, she mutters under her breath before striking it with a vicious right hook. The knob makes a clunking noise as her hand makes contact, but stays firmly in place. Undeterred, she strikes it four more times in quick succession. On the fourth strike it actually jerks out of place, the top digging into the door as the bottom splitters the wood and begins to pop out. Elise stands up, hops in place, and slams the bottom of her foot into the side with a side kick. 

The knob flies off, ricocheting off the wall and rolling at our feet.

I stare at her, surprised. “Where did you learn how to do that?” 

“I box,” she explains. “And it wasn’t that firmly installed in the first place.”

I place my hand in the door hole and pull it forward. Behind it sits a cheap lidless toilet bathed in darkness. I can tell there’s stuff written on the wall, so I grope the wall for a light switch, but there isn’t one. 

“Considering how different this model looks from the others and what we saw in the laundry room, I’m guessing this is the employee bathroom,” Elise frowns.

“This train is terrible!” I exclaim. “I had no idea this luxury train ride company debased it’s employees like this.”

“It looks like the stewards aren’t happy about it either.” Elise squints at the words in the dark and starts to read. “‘I’m _ so _happy for Carl. He never talked about wanting more money but it’s great he figured himself out at the eleventh hour.’ ‘He literally called me Beauregard as if he’s never heard of my first name.’ ‘He leaned in my face and said “If you wanted to make more money, you should’ve made sure you were more qualified before seeking out this company. Like, the hypocrisy?’”

“Is all the graffiti like that?” I ask.

Elise nods. “Carl sounds like he’s a huge asshole.”

“With how these sound, and the note in the alcohol freezer, do you think that Carl used to be a lower ranked steward or something before he got a promotion?” I hypothesize.

Elise nods. “The other stewards definitely make it sound like that. I don’t know why they would lie on a wall only they can see. The promotion might actually be more connected than I thought. I mean it’s popping up a lot”

“We should tell Smith about this,” I say.

“Timber, are you done?” Elise shouts across the hall.

“Yeah! Didn’t find anything though!” He barks back.

As we walk to meet him, a blur flies past and barely manages to keep from colliding with the door leading to the next hallway. Virgil stops himself with a loud thud, his outstretched arm bracing him from probably knocking himself out.

“Jesus Christ!” Elise jumps back in surprise.

“Carl was a union leader!” Virgil booms. He glances back between us and Timber, who approaches him from behind. His gaze is intense and focused, his other hand drumming against his side.

Before any of us can say anything, he launches into an explanation.

“You have to go line by line while looking at the note. _ ‘Now _ that you can drink from the freezer with the big cats’ obviously shows that someone has gotten a promotion. But the final line ‘lets put some meat on your bones’ indicates a thin body, which would be unlikely if he just went one level up. There’s obviously an increase in perks the higher the position is, so if he went from **― ** let’s say middle management for the sake of the example **― ** to upper management, there shouldn’t be such a huge leap in the amount of calories he can afford to consume. But if he started at a much lower level and shot up, then it would be easy to see how he _ just _changed from being able to afford cup noodle quality food to actual meals. The assumption is reinforced by ‘now that you can afford it’, which seems to prove that his body weight wasn’t just caused by genetics.

“But why would someone shoot up so quickly when it’s clear that lower ranked employees are treated so terribly? It seems doubtful that upper management would promote someone among them, regardless of merit, defaulting to hiring to outside the company. Something must have happened. 

“I went to the next hallway while you guys were in here to see if I could find anymore notes about perks Carl got so I could search them for more clues. The Library was first on my left so I dove in and look what I found!”

He pulls a crumpled up piece of paper from his waistband. From the bold lettering in the middle of the page and the way the tearing on the side looks, it seems like he tore it out of a book. I make a distressed sound.

“Was that necessary?” I grimace.

He waves me off. “I didn’t want to lug it around when this is what was important. This is the title page torn from the one of the books in the shelf only upper management has access to. Another note is written across it, marking it as a gift. ‘I won the draw to choose what to recommend you. I really think The Wealth of Nations would do you some good, now you can read something other than Marx.’ When you take it all together **―** his former lower position, his small body that we know was caused by his meager paycheck, a sudden promotion, a lavish gift that indicates a jump in pay, and another gift that hints at a movement from a philosophy based on community to one that focuses on individuality **―** I don’t think it’s that wild to consider that he might’ve been a union leader.

“I went back to the freezer for one last sweep but I didn’t find anything new. If he was a union leader, it would make sense why he was then seen as worthy for promotion despite being one of the lower employees. He probably ratted out the other employees and their plans to get it. Companies convince people to do it all the time. It’s much cheaper to convince the one person putting together a union that they’ll get promoted if they stopped, then paying for increased pay for everyone, safer working conditions, and things like paid leave.”

By the time Virgil is done, his bronze face is flushed with red. He tries to look nonchalant, but it’s clear from the way he’s unsteadily leaning on the door and the dramatic rise and fall of his chest that his rant has left him out of breath.

“Damn Smith, don’t forget to inhale,” Elise says. “What sort of fancy private school did your parents send you to in order to learn how to monologue like a Daphne de Maurier character?”

“Actually,” Virgil pants. “My family’s estate is worth about five hundred million dollars, so most of the time I just had a horde of tutors.”

Elise chokes. ** _“YOUR FAMILY WHAT?”_ **

“I don’t know bro.” Timber sounds stunned, but still uncertain. “That sounds like a lot to get from so little.”

“But it would reinforce what we found,” I gesture to Elise.

She doesn’t pick up where I left off. She’s still gaping at Virgil. Realizing that I’m going to have to explain, I relay the information to the group.

“It is starting to seem more likely,” Timber says. “Do you think we could find more stuff in the movie theater?”

Virgil rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, I got a bit ahead of myself and went into the theater already. I saw a note in the upper management section to remind people that their trash in a giant garbage can located in a theater closet. All the loose wrappers and stuff were going to be thrown out with expired meat during routine disposal. It was pretty big, so I’m pretty sure they wheel it around when the time comes and gets the trash from everywhere else at once.”

Elise seems to break out of her stupor. “Well damn, I really hate that you left us out of your dumpster diving Smith. Be more considerate.”

“Why do they throw out meat so often anyway?” Timber asks. “I’ve seen meat that had labels saying it was bad but when I ate it, it tasted fine.”

I cringe. “As a luxury locomotive they have a bunch of exotic entrees. I wouldn’t be surprised if a bunch of their ingredients were time sensitive or are only at their “peak taste” for a short window. A lot of value is added to food if it has some special condition that can only be meet in strict circumstances. People can brag about how it’s so unique only they can afford it.”

Elise clicks her tongue. “I bet you if you sat them infront of the real thing and a substitute they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

“We can think about the train’s menu when we’re actually in the kitchen,” Virgil interrupts. 

We follow Virgil back towards the fridge. Talking with each other and just talking has brought my anxiety rocketing down.

So when I see the broken lock on the door my heart stops.

The door handle, like the rest of the things on the train, is styled after the 1920s. It has a curved handle meant to be pushed down and pulled outwards, with an antique looking keyhole right under it. The screws keeping the panel the handle is installed on are missing, leaving the handle to fall on a ground and leave a gigant rectangular hole in the door.

“Uh.” Timber’s ears press back against his head. “None of you would happen to be whoever did that, would you?”

“No,” Virgil denies.

He takes a step back. For a moment, it actually feels like Virgil is I and Elise’s age. I’ve always know he’s about twenty two, but he has an ambience that makes it easy to forget. He looks less scared then he does ashamed, like a college kid that didn’t think a decision through. 

“I didn’t see that when I was darting back and forth. I . . . guess I got wrapped up in investigating.”

“How did you miss that when you passed it?” Elise hisses at Virgil.

“_ Stop _.” I interrupt. 

My heart has gone from stopping to racing a thousand miles a second. If we weren’t the ones who messed with the door, and everyone else we knew was still in the lounge, then there was an extremely high chance that the murder might be behind the door. That thought alone makes me lightheaded. I don’t need everyone else screaming on top of it. I dig down and try to summon the small bit of courage I focused on rallying earlier tonight.

_ There might be another person. I might see another body. I might see blood again. _

“O-Okay, here’s what we’re going to do.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it still cracks. “We might not know if there’s someone behind this door, or what powers they have, but we definately know about us. Virgil has super strength and can levitate, Timber can turn into a werewolf, Elise is a witch **―**”

“Actually, I’m not the kind of witch you’re thinking of.” Elise says guiltily. “I’m a ceremonialist, so the magic I do is usually some sort of ritual that takes effect after I’m done or talismans that can be used at any time but have to be made beforehand.”

“That’s okay!” Timber yips. He loops his arm around Virgil’s shoulders and yanks him to his side. “You can count on us.”

I take Elise’s hand. She flinches but doesn’t take it away, so I allow my fingers to curl around her palm.

“We’ll follow Virgil and Timber. If there is someone in there, they’ll naturally engage with them first. We can run for help or behind them so they’re surrounded.” I say.

“Yes.” Virgil turns his hands into fists. His shame has been replaced with determination. “Timber and I will make sure to cover you. I promise we won’t get distracted.”

“Well yeah,” Elise replies anxiously. “It’s hard to zone out when you’re getting in a fight with a murderer.”

Her sardonic voice quivers with anxiety, and although she presses her mouth into a thin line in an attempt to look unbothered, I can see beads of sweat rolling down her face.

“Well?” Her voice cracks as everyone looks at her. “We’re not getting any younger.”

Virgil and Timber plant their hands on the door. I tighten my grip around her hand, making her dark skin turn paler as the blood rushes out. We all count under our breaths.

“One . . . two . . . _ three _!”

Virgil and Timber shove the door against the wall with a boom. The two closest walls rattle as the duo’s heads swivel. Elise and I move closer, ready to move, but as Timber’s raised hackles lower and Virgil’s body untenses, the tension seeps out of all of us. 

“There’s nobody fucking in here,” Elise sighs.

It does seem like there might have been someone in here after curfew. A couple of knives aren’t in their drawers, and a box of appliances have been left on the large prep station in the middle of the room. But the details are so small it could be brushed off as the staff accidentally overlooking a few things.

“Time to see if there are clues are in here then.” Virgil announces.

His voice is a lot less animated than a couple of minutes before. It sounds much more controlled, like he’s trying to stay level-headed. He walks forward deeper into the room as Timber goes left. Elise cracks a half-smile at me. I smile back and loosen my hand from her’s. 

“Sorry for holding on so tight,” I awkwardly chuckle.

“Please. As long as you didn’t mind my sweaty hands, we’re good.”

Elise heads towards Virgil to help him search as I go towards Timber. Unfortunately the few things that have been left out don’t seem to equate to anything substantial.

Then Elise and Virgil both gasp.

Timber and I whip around, his mouth full of linked sausages from pawing through one of the fridges. Virgil has a piece of paper in his hand and the name tag out in another. 

“I found out who Noa is.” He clears his throat. “Carl, Noa keeps nagging us about how the company’s insurance guarantees coverage for her medication. She insists that means we pay for her prescriptions, but we can save money if we find some cheap over the counter stuff and say it’s our coverage. I’ve got to file some paperwork at the next stop so we’d all appreciate it if you picked it up and the next stop. - Mason 

“P.S. After we get to New York we won’t be going on another trip for a while. We were thinking of having a marathon in the theater. Gerard found some gourmet popcorn.”

“This is reaching clownish levels of shittiness,” I grumble. 

“It is, but I think it’s helping me figure out a motive.” Virgil begins to twack his name tag against his hand. “We know that Carl was willing to ditch his coworkers in their time of need, and is being incredibly condescending to them now about their positions despite being in the same place a little while ago. Maybe it’s gotten to a point where his ego is so inflated with self importance that Noa bothering upper management and reminding them of their legal obligations made him angry enough to kill her.”

I feel sick. When it comes to The Boss and I, he’s obviously in a higher position of power. He could easily make my life Hell if he wanted to. Going into work could be the beginning to being belittled and emotionally destroyed every day. He could hold off on my job benefits because he knows how big a decision quitting one place and trying to find another is. But I never once actually even entertained the idea that he would do it.

“Do you really think that could be it?” I hug myself.

“People have killed for less,” Virgil replies.

“I found out what they were doing what the body.”

Elise interrupts us, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. But when we look over at her she isn’t even glancing at us. Her eyes are fixed on a meat grinder fixed to a counter. She looks like a lightbulb just flashed on above her head. Her hand hovers above the wooden handle as she silently mouths her thoughts. The ideas she actually voices come out slow.

“The only obvious disposal options are the trash cans. But we know it can’t be the trash can in the bathroom, because the body wouldn’t be allowed and it’s way too big. The one in the theater sounds big enough considering all the food it needs to contain. But you can’t just dump it in there. People would see it immediately. You know what people wouldn’t notice in a pile full of popcorn, garbage and fancy spoiled meat?”

She points to the grinder. “More meat.”

To my embarrassment, Timber seems to put the puzzle pieces together before I do and immediately gags.

“I think I’m going hurl you guys,” he whimpers.

It suddenly clicks what Elise is implying, but just as I start to feel nauseous my mind intervenes and reasons with my stomach to keep today’s meals inside.

“Elise, that thing is way too small to grind up an entire body,” I argue.

“Grinding up the body is the only way to get the body off the train without someone noticing. They definately planned on using it,” she disagrees.

“But it’s not possible with the equipment available. It has to be something else,” Virgil says.

“We have to use Occam’s Razor,” Elise debates. “If we start trying to hash up overcomplicated schemes all the paranoia and anxiety from tonight is going to get to us and we’ll end up somewhere ridiculous. Most people aren’t master criminals, and we know this is between a bunch of train employees. Whoever did this would’ve defaulted to the simplest plan available, regardless of if the murder was premeditated or not, and this is it.”

“I can’t think of another way to hide the body,” Virgil admits. “But it just wouldn’t work.”

“It _ seems _like it won’t work. I know that whoever did this eventually decided to use the meat grinder. So if we work backwards from that point to figure out how they got to that conclusion, we can figure out why they thought the grinder would work. If the steps we come up sound solid and the inconsistencies are solved, then at the very least we’re coming close to what happened.”

“It would be pretty hard to come up with an explanation that manages to explain everything that’s completely wrong,” I admit.

Elise closes her eyes. “So the grinder is the last step. What do you do right before you use a meat grinder? You get the meat you want to grind up ready. It’s not like the murder was going to season the body with salt, so the only thing to prep would be the portion sizes.”

Her eyes shoot open. “That’s why the hands and the head are missing. They thought if they chopped the body up into smaller pieces the pieces would be able to get through the grinder. That’s why the bonies are broken too. It’s already hard enough to cut through muscle, let alone bones. They broke them up so they could cut through the openings created by the snapped marrow.”

“That does seem more doable,” I realize.

“The step before that was deciding to use the meat grinder, and the step before that was realizing they could sneak the evidence out during rotation if they made the body look like meat,” she finishes.

“That is the only thing that explains the pieces.” Compared to his doubt from earlier, Virgil sounds impressed.

“But dudes,” Timber interrupts. “The grinder doesn’t even have blood on it. What you said makes sense, but they clearly didn’t follow through with it.”

“Something made them stop. They either realized that the bones piece would jam up the grinder or they got fatigued. We know they’re weak. This was the original plan, but not the one they ended up executing,” Elise explains.

The space between Virgil’s eyes creases as he looks down at the name tag in his hand. “If you were able to arrive at that with a simplified approach, maybe I’m overthinking the motive. It is possible Carl got to the point where he thought he was so good he didn’t have to answer anyone. But with the way he treats people and the things he’s done, the stewards on the train really have more of a motive to go after him then he did to go after them.”

“But the killer didn’t go after Carl, they went after Noa. Why would they want to go after someone else randomly when they have a better motive to go after Carl? And if the killer chose Noa instead, then where does Carl fit at all? He’s too involved in everything to not somehow be a part of this,” I ask.

Timber massages his head. “All this thinking is making my head hurt.”

“If we’re sticking to Occam’s Razor, a random person going after Noa just can’t be possible. The simplest motive in this case would lead someone to go after Carl. So if we say that Carl is the victim, but we know Noa is involved because of the nametag, the role Noa would default to without things being convoluted is . . .”

Virgil, Elise, and my eyes meet. I see their eyes flash with realization as we connect the same pieces at the same time: Noa’s vitamin deficiency and Carl’s small body. Both are things that would make them look similar on the outside, as long as you didn’t see their faces.

Virgil’s hand tightens around the name tag. “Noa is the killer. She just swapped their nametags.”

The lights immediately go out, plunging us into darkness.

I scream. My anxiety comes back tenfold as I lose sight of my friends, and every fear I’ve been worried about seems like it’s seconds away from happening. I can hear an extra pair of footsteps as everyone starts to yell and scramble in the dark. Noa is going to show her face, and it’s going to be the last thing I see. There will be another body tonight, and it’s going to be mine as I drift away into whatever comes after all of this. The blood I’ve been to terrified of seeing again is going to come out of my body. 

My last chant to myself pops back into my panicked mind. _ I might have to defend myself. I might have to defend myself. _

Yelling, I lash out with my arms, fists swinging. I strike a counter, the edge of a cabinet, a sink and Timber’s furry tail. I can barely hear his whine over my hyperventilating. 

“Get away from us!” I screech.

I swing out with my foot. I feel my toes make contact with a drawer. It bounces outward with the force of my kick, and I hear an unfamiliar yelp as it clips someone. Straining my eyes as I register the small window to act; I can just barely make out the shape of a thin body lying on the floor. 

I throw myself on top of her, clawing at their body until I find her hands and force them together. As she attempts to throw me off her body, I knee at her in a terrified fit. 

“Oz! Oz!_ Oz! _” Elise grabs my leg.

My movements stutter to a stop. Noa, who seems to be a mummy, looks at me with dread.

_ Wait, what? _ Since when could I see in the dark?

My breathing slows, and I realize someone managed to turn the lights back on. Timber taps on my shoulder, and gestures to his shirt, which he’s taken off and now holds in his hands. I don’t understand what he’s doing, but as he reaches for Noa and restrains her hands right above my iron grip, Elise pulls me away. Timber shoves Noa’s hands into the hole of the shirt and uses the excess fabric to secure everything with a tight, thick knot.

I feel dazed. “Why didn’t he just use a towel from one of the drawers?”

Virgil shrugs. “He really wanted to take his shirt off, just give him this.”

Timber pulls back from Noa, and moves to stand behind her. With the rest of us in front she’s essentially boxed on, and we can finally get a good look at her.

Oddly, it’s not the blood staining her uniform and bandages that freaks me out. It’s not even the stillness her body falls into, like a snake getting ready to pounce.

No, it’s the little radio pinned to her lapel where her name tag should be. The sound of our breathing echoes from her chest in real time, just a second behind our actually inhales and exhales. I glance around and spot small copper intercoms in the upper corner of the room.

“Were you listening to us this whole time?” I step back. Virgil plants a hand of my shoulder, steadying me.

Noa’a gaze is severe as she refuses to answer. It’s inaccurate to say she looks angry. Hostility is completely absent. She just looks extremely fierce, like she’s thinking about bum rushing, biting, and trying to make a run for it all at the same time, almost like a panicked animal. But as the seconds tick by, her shrunken pupils slowly grow larger and larger. Her eyes take on a glassy sheen, and she bursts into tears.

“Please, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to _ do _ anything. The company wouldn’t give me my coverage, a-and I just kept feeling weaker and weaker, and I could tell that my bosses were just stalling until I gave up. But there’s no way I can _ pay _ for anything out of pocket, even if the costs weren’t ridiculous they barely pay us. And Carl _ knew _ , that _ promised _ us that things would get better, that we wouldn’t have to be talked to like toddlers anymore or have to pee in the dark. He said he would make sure we didn’t have to worry about stuff anymore, but he comes out of the fucking meeting with a new uniform and this shitty grin. And I know that doesn’t justify this, but I was _ so _angry, and even though I knew he was probably going to feed me more bullshit I just needed any kind of explanation.

“But when snuck out from the front to talk in the freezer, he literally spit in my face, and the next second I shoved him and his neck was broken!”

A bit of sympathy breaks through my anxiety, but it’s hard for it to go far when I can still see blood caked under her nails. Even though Carl doesn’t sound like someone who a lot of people will mourn over, the absolutely grisly appearance of his corpse and the terror I’ve cycled through tonight has been traumatizing enough that I might actually make an appointment with a therapist.

“I know it sounds bad, but I can’t lose this job, much less go to jail!” She pleads. “Surely you understand.”

“B-But,” Elise clears her throat. She looks embarrassed over the quiver in her voice. “I don’t understand what you were doing after you realized the grinder wouldn’t work. I know you switched the name tag so people would think you were the corpse, but why did you put it in his shoe?”

“Um.” Noa mutters under her breath, “My hands were covered in so much blood I couldn’t get a grip on his shirt to pin it. I was just easier to toss in in his shoe.”

I clutch at my throat. _ I’m not going to vomit. I’m not going to vomit. _

More and more shame fills Noa’s voice at we continue to stare at her. “I took Carl’s name tag, because if everyone assumed I was the corpse, and there was no sign of Carl’s stuff, they would assume he was the murderer and that he was the one who was on the run when I snuck out of the train at our destination. No one would try to track me down because they would all think I was dead.”

I bury my fingers into my sleeve. “But Damien came by while you were sorting things out and you panicked.”

“I didn’t want to hurt your friend.” She insists. “Please, I just . . . I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Please don’t tell anyone, _ please _.”

Despite her begging, I can tell from the sag of her face that she already knows we won’t let her go. It’s almost a courtesy plea, like when you send a thank you card to a company after you bombed an interview and you know they won’t hire you. No sane person would legitimately think anyone would let them go after doing something like this. But she doesn’t have any options. What else can she do?

“Not to add to the damning sense of dread that’s obviously weighing more and more on you by the second, but you would still be caught even if we let you go,” Virgil says discerningly.

Noa sniffs, her eyes still running over with tears. “No I wouldn’t.”

“I mean this in the most polite way possible, I promise I’m not trying to be insensitive in any shape or form, but unless you or Carl are trans, the autopsy would’ve shown pretty clearly that the corpse isn’t you,” he points out.

Noa’s eyes widen in realization. Her body sags to match the crestfallen expression on her face. 

We have the killer cornered, we won’t have to worry about her coming after us, and none of us will be falsely accused when the morning comes. It’s over. Something about the finality of it all makes the fortitude I tried to keep through the investigation crumble. I’m so tired. I thought I was worn out after my anxiety attack, but this is a new level of exhaustion. I feel my control over my body slip, and suddenly I’m hurling on the ground. Elise rushes to keep me steady, rubbing stiff but well intentioned circles into my back.

“I’m going to jail aren’t I?” Noa whispers.

Through the tears in my eyes, I can make out Virgil crossing his arms, and Timber beginning to make Noa move.

“Yes.”

After Virgil, Elise and I finish giving our statements, we stumble over to a bench to wait for Damien. Though Dr. Whitetail did a good job looking after him, the EMTs want a look at him, and he still has to talk to police. Noa disappeared into a police car not too long ago, along with most of upper management for failure to provide humane working conditions and attempting to commit insurance fraud (it turns out leaving notes on the refrigerator about how you want to cheat someone out of their medical insurance is illegal, who would’ve thought). I feel guilty for simply telling the police to check the fridge instead of explaining everything we’d seen, but once half of your shirt is covered in vomit, it’s hard to work up the motivation to talk for more than a couple of seconds.

Besides, the horde of angry employees who jumped on the opportunity to expose their bosses once they found out how illegal everything that’s been forced on them is seems to be providing enough testimonials on their own.

Virgil and Elise stand in front of me as Elise passes me Virgil’s nightshirt. Behind the wall of their bodies, I take off my top and put on Virgil’s. Though I’m thin, I’m also much taller than Elise, so I look less like I’m drowning in all the excess fabric. Once they see I’m dressed, they sink back onto the bench. I move to toss my shirt in a trashcan.

“You could just put that in the washing machine,” Elise says.

“After panic-sweating, crying, vomiting, and having an anxiety attack in it, I kind of don’t want it anymore,” I explain.

“Understandable,” Virgil remarks.

“Hey,” Elise starts. Her voice sounds different again. Her accent is a little less noticeable, her voice is a bit faster and I’m pretty sure it’s a little higher. “I want you to know that you did really good tonight. I’m not saying that just to make you feel better. Literally anyone, even if they didn’t suffer from anxiety attacks like you, would react like you did, but you pulled yourself together, helped us find a murderer and then tackled her when she tried to come for us. Your anxiety acting up in between that isn’t some sort of character failing, like being greedy or too confident. You have a medical condition and for what it’s worth, I think you handled it really well.”

I smile. “Thanks Elise.”

Virgil holds up a fist. “I’m going to piggyback off of her and say, ‘what she said’.”

“Hey!” Elise cries in false protest.

I bump his fist with my own.

“God, stuff like this really makes you think. I’m glad my dad is safe and sound at home right now. If I found out he went through this I would have a heart attack,” Elise says.

“Are you going to tell him what happened?” I ask.

“Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” 

“You did pretty well yourself Elise. You’re good at backtracking and arguing for your ideas,” Virgil says. “Think you’re going to pursue that? Become some sort of researcher?”

“We want to be a lot of things,” Elise answers ambitiously.

_ We? _I repeat in my mind, confused.

“I can check up on Damien for you,” Elise offers. “I know you probably want to do it yourself, but you look kind of worn out.”

I take her up on it. “That would be great.”

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Virgil scoots closer. He talks in a low voice, as if he’s still afraid someone might eavesdrop even though we’re alone.

“So you know when I was asking you questions about Damien on the train?” He asks.

“You mean probing me for information?” I bluntly respond.

Virgil’s eyes only widen a fraction. Despite his attempt to be unreadable I can tell he’s surprised.

“I know when it comes to intense situations I’m not exactly adept, but I’ve been working in a corporate environment for a long time. I can tell when someone is trying to get information out of me,” I explain.

Virgil smiles. It’s small; he showed it to Elise earlier when she was joking around. 

“I can see why Damien is head over heels for you,” he replies. 

I sputter. “I, uh, do you think? Um.”

Mercifully, Virgil keeps me from devolving into a never ending series of half syllables and distressed noises. 

“When I was probing for information earlier, I told myself it was because I was looking for things Damien might’ve missed; we’ve already had two slip ups and I was worried it might happen again. But really, I didn’t mind when things went off track. I just liked talking to all of you. I guessed I’ve gotten used to you and teasing Damien,” he admits.

I rub the bridge of my nose. “Do you and Damien seriously have to keep trying to mess with each other?”

“Yes, it’s extremely important to the balance of reality and it must never stop,” he says quickly. “But getting back to my point, I’m starting to feel the same way about Elise, especially after tonight. I’ll admit, I . . . Have actually felt more conflicted by this whole thing than I’ve been letting on. And surviving a murderer, this is the final nail in the coffin.”

“You want to convince Damien to stop tricking her?” I guess.

He nods. “You seem like you don’t exactly feel entirely on board with this anymore either.”

“So you’re recruiting me to help you?”

“Yeah, basically.”

It’s early morning at this point as dawn breaks over the horizon. Virgil shifts deeper into the shadows of the building. After a night of running around, the Vampire SPF I’ve seen him apply probably wore off. His gaze is subdued but hopeful, as if he doesn’t want to get too excited in case I turn him down. It’s the first time I’ve seen him purposefully show some vulnerability. The realization that Virgil trusts me, even a little bit, feels nice. I want the same thing with Elise, but unless I stop being dishonest with her, any trust she gives me won’t be sincere.

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *collapses on ground in relief*
> 
> I truly did not intend for this chapter to be any more than three thousand words. I don’t know what happened. How do you go from there thousand to eleven thousand.
> 
> I’m sorry you had to wait so long for this update because the chapter got so big. The next few should be much shorter, returning to the approximate three thousand words. So the time between those updates will be shorter.
> 
> Anyway, tell me what you thought about this chapter, and the progression of the characters’ relationships. Comments really give me the motivation to keep going, and I have the rest of this story planned, so all I need to know is if anyone wants to read it.


	13. Friends - Elise of Salt

Midtown Manhattan feels like the version of famous places you see in movies. Everything is conveniently in one place so the directors can get money shots of places you’re pretty sure are actually miles apart. Landmarks are two seconds from each other so the main characters can be somewhere romantic at any point in time. Even standing near a trash can feels a bit too colorful. Instead of grey and covered in pebbles like most of the waste bins I’m used to seeing in public, the ones in the vicinity are bright and green.

To be fair, there were a _ lot _of trash cans, and a lot of trash, so maybe it’s my wonder at being in New York again that’s making everything feel cinematic. I’m pretty sure the last time I was here, everything felt overwhelming and a bit too big, but since my feet left our hotel I’ve felt fine so far.

Maybe it’s because I have a big opportunity to look forward to. We aren’t scheduled to go to the Core Club until a few more hours, but I can’t help but glance at my watch every other second, as if it’s magically going to become 4 p.m. at any second. Oz said that Damien had some networking appointments, but the whole affair is mostly going to be relaxed. 

_ If everything is going to be so casual, I don’t see the harm in seeing if anyone might be interested in me. _ I muse. _ I do want to go into business. I’d be silly not to at least see if this leads anywhere. _

I glance back inside the Starbucks. Smith and Oz are still hovering next to Damien. Even though I can’t hear them, I can tell they’re still talking in the same hushed tone they’ve been using ever since we started to settle in. Seeing as they always stop whenever I drift closer, it’s clearly private. Considering what happened to Damien on the train, I’m guessing it has to do with his health or something. Even though we’re all friends, they’ve obviously known him longer, so they’re probably asking if it’s messed with any pre existing health issues or trying to figure out how it’s going to affect whatever they were planning on doing once we get back to Salt.

Not wanting to impose, I try to look occupied with my drink. I’ve been standing out here long enough that it’s completely empty, but if I throw it away, I won’t have anything to do with my hands, and then I’ll just look like I’m passive aggressive trying to tell them to hurry up.

_ You’re overthinking things. _I silently chide myself. It’s hard to take the personal criticism seriously. I know the anxious energy I feel isn’t going to lead me to do anything actually stupid. It’s closer to excitement than actual nervousness, and I know as soon as we start really walking around I’ll calm down.

_ I’m on a trip! With friends! In a big exciting city! _I shout inside my head.

It feels like I’ve come so far in my goal of trying to rope new blood into my life. Even when I want to get close to people, it feels like forever before I actually feel comfortable around them. The whole train crime seems to have speed things along.

Oz walks out, clearing their throat. “Smith and The Boss will be out in a second.”

I look at their hands. “Just seltzer water?”

Oz grimaces. “Yeah. I don’t feel nauseous anymore, but my stomach does feel, I don’t know, delicate? If it didn’t we could check out the Grolier Club. It’s the oldest bibliophilia club in the United States, and has books all the way back from 1884. There are books everywhere.” 

I frown. “Do you feel okay enough to do anything?”

“Oh yeah,” Oz assures me. “I just know the smell of dust and hot leather will get to me you know?”

“If I’m being honest, not really. I’ve never been lucky enough to know what that smells like, so I can’t say I know exactly what you’re talking about. But if you want to start a conversation I’ll know how to contribute to . . .” I grin. “We can talk about you and Damien’s kiss.”

Oz coughs, their head tilted back mid sip. “Uh, let’s, excuse me?”

Before I can prod Oz into stuttering something substantial, Smith and Damien finally step out of the store. The latter looks uncharacteristically pensive. Smith, meanwhile, is wearing a campy mask of some off-brand folk hero with a pipe in his mouth that he got from a street stand. He never struck me as the kind of man who liked cartoons, but I guess you learn something new everyday. Damien breaks out of whatever thought he’s in to look at it, a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

“Man Smith, there’s nothing wrong with liking to suck dick but you don’t have to advertise it in public,” he snarks. “There are kids around.”

“You know this is a pipe,” Smith says.

Even though I know Damien is just taking the piss, I can’t help but take his side.

“It does look rather phallic.” I say.

“It cost two dollars, it was bound to be poor quality.” Oz adds.

“You two too?” Smith grouses. “I know you’re more mature than Damien. You’re all just dirty minded.”

“As someone on the ace spectrum I don’t think that’s really possible.” I playfully object.

Damien guffaws. “Don’t sell yourself short Elise. Just because you don’t feel that sort of way doesn’t mean you can’t joke around like the rest of us. I’m sure if you put your mind to it your can belt out shitty innuendos like a champ.”

Smith sighs and pulls an umbrella from his side. Unfolding it, he lets out a relieved hum as he’s cloaked in it’s cool shadow.

“I ran out of my SPF.” He explains.

“Are you okay?” Damien and I ask at the same time. 

Whatever answer Smith might have provided is forgotten as he looks at Damien with equal parts mild surprise and amusement.

“LaVey, are you a bit worried about me?” He teases.

“Fuck off.” The demon says half heartedly. 

I elbow Oz. “Someone is coming to steal your mans.”

Oz flushes, but keeps their composure. “Please. Enemies to lovers might be one of my favorite book tropes but that’s definitely not happening here. N-Not with m-my kisses.”

There’s dead silence among the group as Damien gapes at his assistant. 

“Oz.” I start, stunned. “Did you just boldly flirt?”

“Oh gods.” Oz shrinks. “Was it cringey? Nevermind, I ―”

“Fuck no!” Damien yells so loudly several people on the sidewalk look at us. “Cringe culture is fucking dead Ozzy!”

Damien grabs their hand and clasps it in his. Oz creates a series of gasps and stutters that sound like a pair of bagpipes being strangled to death by a panther, but it’s muffled by Damien’s declaration to Smith.

“Shit man, I thought after you stopped being a sad sack and got your bearings you might be boring. But if you’re telling me your fucking knock-off Pokeman evolution goes from Basic Bitch Rich Boy With Three Emotions to Guy Who Can Indirectly Get Me Laid I might just have to say you’re my friend,” Damien says to Smith.

“You’re as much as a ‘Basic Bitch Rich Boy’ as I am LaVey,” Smith retorts. 

“Call me basic again and we’ll both see who's actually a bitch,” Damien cracks.

“Being a sad sack?” I interrupt. “About what?”

Damien shrugs. “When Smith and I were having meetings back in Salt he was kind of a mood killer: switching back and forth between things over and over, nitpicking little details, that sort of shit. I figured it was him being homesick or whatever.”

Smith and Oz seem to deflate a little as they share a look. They don’t say anything though, so I assume it’s private and don’t prod them. 

“Smith feeling conflicted is a mood killer but being brained upside the head by a murderer wasn’t?” I ask.

Damien shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

“You talk a big game,” I note.

He cracks his knuckles. “I play a big game.”

“That’s a lot of talk coming from someone too nervous to make anything official with Oz.” I can practically hear Smith smirking.

Any anger Damien usually would’ve directed at Smith seems canceled out by their new pseudo frenemy status and the expectant, bashful look Oz shoots Damien under their eyelashes. 

Damien rubs the back of his neck. “Well, uh, I just got brained upside the fucking head a couple of hours ago. Cut me a fucking break.”

Smith tips his head. “I thought you had worse?”

“Well! I!” Damien jerks his head to the side, a heavy blush blossoming across his face as he scowls, struggling to think of a retort. 

“Is this normal?” Oz buries half of their face in their shoulder. “I don’t think most people have their friends mediate and provide commentary when they’re getting together with someone else.

“Well most friends don’t survive and solve a gruesome train murder together,” Smith says. “I think we’re past considering what’s normal at this point.”

“Smith is right.” I add. “If him sucking dick in the middle of the street tells us anything, it's that we can define how we conduct ourselves on our own terms.”

Smith looks at me, exasperated, as Damien snorts and offers me his raised hand. I high five him so hard my palm stings. Joy bursts through my chest like a little firework, and the only thing close to it I can think of is when I get to cancel plans to socialize.

For half a second, confusion clouds my mind as I stop to sort out the dissonance between the joy of being with a group that likes me and the memory of happily getting to be a hermit before I remember why I was writing in my notebook on the train. I try to ignore the disoriented feeling that comes with the reconciliation.

“But if you really feel uncomfortable Oz we can stop,” I say.

“Yeah Ozzy.” Damien squeezes their hand. “This is sort of an intimate conversation to be having in public. We can go back to the hotel for lunch before Core Club and keep talking there. I don’t want to force you outside your comfort zone, especially after what just happened. I’m pretty sure they’re serving like, gelato and shit.”

I gasp. “I love gelato.”

“That sounds nice,” Oz agrees.

“I’ll flag a taxi,” Smith says.

Broad, muscular, and tall, Smith stands out among the throng and soon we’re sitting in the backseat of a yellow car weaving in and out of traffic. Oz gives the driver a fat tip before the drive is even over, and suddenly the infamous NYC gridlock I’ve always heard about disappears as our chauffeur drives like her life depends on it until the place we’re staying at comes into view. 

Waldorf Astoria New York, a four point five star hotel nine minutes away from the Core Club, seems like the sort of fancy place that costs a few hundred dollars a night. I have to guess because Oz refused to tell me ― “I don’t want you to feel guilty for me picking up the tab!” ― and when I tried to Google it the internet refused to show me a straight answer, prices fluctuating not based on how many people there were but on if the hotel was in the middle of “ gala fundraising season” or a “business mecca”.

I’m pretty sure that’s internet-rich-people for “If you have to ask you can’t afford it”.

My CashApp card feels strangely heavy in my pocket as I step out. Oz transferred money onto it to spend, which meant I’m getting purchasing power on top of a free trip. It’s starting to feel a little weird, but I can’t quite tell if it’s in a good way or a bad way. I knew Oz was well off from the beginning. Our first date was a shopping trip. I met their boss, Damien, the CEO of an entire company on the same day, and I found out last night that Smith is worth a whopping five hundred million dollars. Obviously I’ve found myself in the middle of a wealthy circle. But it hasn’t really sunk in until now. I’m walking up to a hotel without having to care about what it costs, and have money I can just spend without worrying about saving. It’s not the same as having those things because I’m rich, but I would bet the lack of stress is something Damien, Oz, and Smith probably have on a regular basis ― at least when it comes to expenses. Being able to do the same things and feel the same way even though our lives are nothing alike creates a kind of weirdness I can’t quite put a name to.

Things feel a little better once we’re inside the lobby. Waldorf Astoria, funnily enough, has a similar deco ambiance that the train did but with a much more modernized hyper-expensive/elegant feeling. The black and white room, with its combination of bright foggy glass and polished tile floor, has a sort of epic ambience. Since there’s no way a regular person could afford the materials to build a place like it, I’ve never seen anything like it before, so walking on the floor somehow feels momentous, as if few people would ever see a sight like this and fate had chosen me.

_ Wow _ . I think. _ Is this how rich people are so confident all the time? They have all these extravagant places that look like something out of a book and no money troubles? _

A beat passes before I accidentally answer my question aloud. “No shit dumbass.”

“What?” Smith asks.

I stutter, “Uh, nothing. Where are we going to eat?”

Damien scratches his head. “I’m sure the restaurant they said is serving gelato today is named, like, Cock Boulevard or something.”

Smith rolls his eyes. “It’s Peacock Alley Damien.”

“The exihibitionist would know if a place actually has cock or not,” Damien ribs.

Smith dives at Damien, as the demon cackles and runs off. Oz follows them, rolling their eyes, so I assume that they must be darting towards the restaurant.

“Isn’t Smith going to take his mask off to eat?” I ask. “We’ve been inside for a bit. It seems like if he’s going to put something in his mouth like food, he needs to actually get to it, right?”

Oz looks uncomfortable. “I’m sure he’ll take it off once we get in a private dining room. He probably just wants to wear it as long as he can. Because he likes it.”

I frown. “Was Damien right? Did we make you too uncomfortable outside?”

“No!” Oz protests. “I’m just thinking about stuff. Don’t mind me.”

We fall into silence until we reach the restaurant. Damien is playfully shoving Smith. Smith is standing a little too stiffly, like he’s trying to come off as proper but is struggling not to chuckle at the same time. The hostess seems exasperated until Oz and I enter his sights. He quickly gathers some menus from his dais.

“Are you the two they’re waiting for?” He asks hopefully.

Oz nods. He waves at us and speed walks, clearly wanting to get us settled and leave us alone as quickly as possible. We’re lead to a door in the wall, and are ushered into a dark toned room with dim lighting, elegant seats, and polished wooden walls.

“You’ll be dining à la carte today ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be back with you in a moment,” he informs.

As he departs, Damien ploops down and pulls out a seat beside him with his tail.

“Sit next to me Ozzy,” he demands.

Oz follows suit, but doesn’t seem very happy. Damien says so outloud as Smith and I get settled.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“I know he probably didn’t mean to imply it, but I don’t really fit into ‘ladies and gentleman’,” they clarify.

Damien scowls. “Do you want me to fuck him up?”

Oz makes a face. “No, it’s not even that really. It’s that, I don’t even know what I would correct him to. Ladies, gentlemen, and others? That sounds like two titles of respect and an add-on.”

“I use themme fetale when I announce my non-binary friends.” I suggest. “Well not friends. I’ve never really had any non-binary friends in real life before. But like, people online?”

Oz perks up. “I like the sound of that.”

“Well shit, we know what to get noobs to call you now,” Damien says.

“Yes.” Smith agrees. He takes off his mask and leans towards Damien on the other side of the table. Despite how casual the response is, and the evenness of Smith’s tone, the atmosphere of the room suddenly feels more charged. “Elise sure has been a great friend, especially these past few hours. I can’t imagine treating her as anything less.”

“You’re making that pretty clear.” Damien responds.

Even though his easy going reply isn’t out of place in the conversation, it too changes the room. Anxious and confused, I try to make sense of the duality between what is spoken and how everything feels until I realize something is being implied.

“Oh, Smith,” I interject. “If Damien was just ribbing me or something while Oz and I were catching up to you two it’s fine. It’s just joking around, yeah?”

It’s the only reason I can think of for why one person would be irritated and the other would brush them off. Smith has made it pretty clear that he thinks Damien can be a bit much. I’d rather go back to them guying each other.

“Yeah Smith, just . . .” Damien trails off, making some vague gesture like he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. “So what about tearing into this fucking gelato?”

Welcoming the change back to normal, I grab a menu from the middle of the table and start to gush over the options with Oz. As I persuade them to try one of my favorite flavors, lavender or rose, Smith eventually eases into another one of his stories. His and Damien’s frenemiship makes it so Smith can’t get too far into the conclusion of his captivating adventure before Damien interrupts and starts pelting me with questions about witchcraft. Oz brings up my curiosity about Key of Solomon demons from before the trip, and by the time our orders have come around Damien is openly mocking Hell’s monarchy.

“ . . . Honestly my dads are the only fuckers I can really respect down there. Maybe the Aquinos on a good day,” he declares. 

My phone beeps, and I unlock it just so the text message I got will be marked as ‘read’ and stop alerting me. My eyes passively take in the name of the sender on the screen, but it doesn’t process until I’m shoving my phone back in my pocket.

_ Liam? _ I feel my eyes bulge out of my head. _ Why is he texting me? _

My hand hovers as I’m pulled between shoving my phone back into my pocket or shoving the screen into my face. Things were so up in the air since we last talked I don’t even have a clue about what this could be about.

“Elise?” 

Smith breaks me out of my trance. His interjection makes the table go quiet.

“You zoned out for a second. Is everything ok?” He asks.

“Yes!” I answer a little too quickly; I’ve never had trouble with white lies, but Smith’s intense gaze throws me off, even though it’s not accusatory. _ I need a distraction. _ “I was just trying to figure out if this all means Oz and Damien are a concrete item now. You two are all over each other now but we still haven’t heard anything.”

Damien turns pink. “Ah, well, that’s because . . .”

Oz turns their head towards their lap, fiddling with their hands as they look at Damien under their eyelashes. “Is it . . . Is it because you feel like you can’t trust me with your emotions?”

Damien reels. “The fuck?”

“On the train I could tell you weren’t just thinking of what was going on. When Smith showed you the name tag it wasn’t that hard to guess what they probably reminded you of,” Oz says.

Damien’s jaw clenches, and to my surprise I see pain flash behind his eyes.

“Should I leave?” I ask, unsure of what Oz was referring to and feeling kind of guilty. Did I accidentally bring up some trauma? 

“No!” Damien objects defensively. “I’m fine. I just have some fucking dust in my eye or whatever.”

“You seem to get a lot of stuff stuck in your eye,” Oz snips. “I-I know I can get anxious really easily, and s-sometimes I just fall apart, so if you _ like _ me but don’t really want to be _ with _ me because you don’t think—”

“Shit Oz, that’s not it at all!” Damien slams his fist on the table. “I didn’t want to talk about how I felt because you already had a panic attack and I didn’t want to accidentally give you another one by reminding you of a school wide funeral.”

“So you do feel like you can’t trust me with your emotions,” Oz softly concludes.

Damien pulls their hands out of their lap, looking frustrated. “Fuck, ** _no_ ** Oz. Being afraid I might trigger you isn’t an fucking assessment of how much trust I feel like I can put in you as a person. You have a medical problem. That’s not a character trait. You’re not a noob, you have a gods damned condition, alright? That’s completely separate from what I feel for you!”

I definitely have to leave. I don’t know what exactly they’re talking about, but it definitely feels like it’s getting too personal for an audience. 

_ Well I got my distraction. _ I think guiltily.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” I announce. “Just for a little bit.”

Oz reads between the lines once they remember I’m there and smiles gratefully. “You would do that?”

“Of course I would. After how nice you’ve been to me and welcomed me these past few months I’d do just about anything for y’all.” I smile.

Damien perks up and immediately deflates, frowning. Smith who enigmatically didn’t make any moves to come with me or show that he was keyed into whatever death Oz and Damien were talking about, is suddenly the embodiment of talkativeness. In a second, he’s by Damien’s side whispering in his ear, and Oz is quick to join him.

_ So he does know. _I conclude.

My phone weighing like a thousand tons in my pocket, I walk out of the room and ask a hostess where the powder room is. Trying to ride on the tiny high of coming off as fancy, I lock myself inside a stall and open up my messages. I register Liam’s name but my eyes refuse to dip down to read the rest of what he’s sent. I wait, trying to summon up the courage to keep reading.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

But my gaze is frozen on my friend(?)’s name. I told Oz, at least in vague terms, that I wasn’t quite sure what to call Liam anymore. I hoped our whole spat was him going through something but there was no way to be sure. Here, in my hand, is the definitive answer. Either Liam wants to reconcile or . . .

_ He wants me out of his life forever. _I think.

Without really reading, I scan over his message and conclude it would be far more accurate to call it a dissertation. Blocks after blocks of grey texts fill my screen. The lump in my throat grows. If this is a rejection Liam certainly didn’t spare any words.

_ Freyja, what’s the thousand word essay version of ‘Maybe I would make a little more sense to someone who wasn’t so desperate?’ _ I squirm above the toilet, slowly starting to feel nauseous.

_ Good thing I’m in the bathroom. _I joke to myself. It doesn’t temper my anxiety though. My eyes start skipping from word to word randomly, too psyched out to take in an actual sentence. I start to become hyper sensitive to the time, because I know that I’m wasting what little I have before the amount of time I’ve been in here becomes weird.

Finally I shove my phone back in my pocket, frustrated. I’m not getting anywhere and Oz will probably knock on the door soon. I groan, pulling at my afro.

“Are you okay dear?” An elderly woman in the stall next to me asks.

“I’m on my period!” I shout back.

For some reason she doesn’t feel encouraged to continue our little chat, and I sulk back into the main area of the restaurant, heading towards the group.

_I really wasted fifteen minutes freaking out in a bathroom over a text message._ _I don’t know how I could feel more stupid._

“You said you’d do anything for your friends. Admit it, haven’t Elise and I grown on you to that point by now? Shouldn’t the same sort of thought you’ve put into trying to reach Liam be extended to her? Because if the answer is yes then we can’t keep lying to her. You heard what she said. The longer this drags on the worse it’s going to get when we break it to her,” Smith lectures.

_ Huh? _ I stop, hand against the private dining room door. Smith’s command slips out through the tiny crack I’ve made in the process of opening it. 

“Virgil is right Damien,” Oz agrees. “What is she going to do if she finds out about who he actually is from someone else?”

_Virgil?_ I step back, letting the door softly close. Heavy and thick, the door mutes the voices on the other side once it settles back in its frame, but I don’t need to hear the rest of the conversation to start shaking.

Someone taps me on a shoulder. “Ma’am, is everything alright?” 

I jump, then quickly plaster a smile on my face to soothe the concerned waiter holding a tray full of gelato.

_ That must be our orders. _ I faintly realize. _ Me and whoever the Hell I’ve been traveling with. Damien, if that’s even this guy’s fucking name because aparently Smith isn’t Smith, has been trying to talk to Liam? Is it the same Liam? That would be an insane coincidence if it wasn’t. Oh gods they’re stalking Liam and they’ve been lying to me so they can convince me to give them his address or something, like some kind of long con. That’s why they’re talking like they’re in one big conspiracy. I’m stuck on a trip with crazy people. Oh gods, oh gods. _

My luxurious surroundings suddenly feel less like an adventure and more like real-life foreshadowing. I’ve heard so many horror stories of some college girl hanging out with some rich boyfriend fifty times her age or high society friends that came out of nowhere before disappearing into thin air. If I didn’t tell them what they wanted, were they going to traffic me or something?

My eyes burn as I remember lounging next to Oz before the trip, talking about everything and absolutely nothing. Acclimating to their presence felt like such an accomplishment; I had a friend!

_ “Would we be close friends if we still broke up? You seem to be okay with the idea of still being friends after a breakup, but could we stay close friends?” _ Oz’s voice echoes in my memory.

_ Was our date orchestrated? _ I clamp a hand over my mouth. _ They just decided they didn’t need to keep it up anymore because they thought they didn’t need to? _

_ But. _ I stop myself. _ The train, and what . . . Virgil said. They want to stop lying to me? Before it gets worse? How can this be any more fucked up than it already is? _

“Ma’am?” The waiter shifts awkwardly in place. “Pardon me but you’re blocking the way in. Do you need me to call someone for you? Are you having a panic attack?”

_ Are Oz’s panic attacks even real? Was that a play? _

I swallow, trying to calm down. _ You are a witch. You are not defenseless. Pull yourself together. _

I gesture to the waiter. “I’m one of the people who ordered this, give it to me.”

Taking the tray without waiting for a response, I all but kick the door open. I try to slam the tray down on the table, but I still feel shaky and it settles with an uneven clatter.

“Elise!” Oz exclaims. “What are you —?”

“I heard you,” I hiss. I raise my fists to my shoulders, not quite settling into a fighting position but keeping them close enough that I can reposition them in case things get any crazier. “About lying to me and apparently knowing Liam. What kind of stalkers are you? _ Who _ are you?”

I stab a finger at Virgil. “I know that one isn’t actually named Smith.”

Oz gasps and Damien goes still, tail going straight like a startled cat. Virgil flies to his feet but doesn’t seem to know what to do next, brow furrowed.

He reaches out a hand. “We can explain.”

“Stay _ right _ there,” I demand. “I can and will beat your ass.”

“Come on Elise I’m three times your size,” Virgil retorts.

I tense. “And I scratch like a feral muskrat so back up.”

“Elise I promise that we don’t want to hurt you,” Oz squeaks.

“I literally have no reason to believe you.” I force my voice to stay steady. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time. There’s no way you can be talking about some Liam I’ve never met and how important it is to lie to me at the same time, you’re stalking him or something so you’ve decided to whisk me away so you can get me to tell you whatever you want.”

I don’t mention that I couldn’t give them an in to being with Liam even if I wanted to, at least not in a way that’s sure to be amicable. The final word on our friendship sits in my pocket, unread. Thinking about it in the midst of it makes my body go even taunter. I feel like a bow string about to snap.

“D-Don’t you really t-think if we were just stalking Liam we couldn’t afford to hire someone to do it for us?” Oz trembles, their eyes begging. 

“Are you trying to weirdly humblebrag your way out of this? ‘Don’t be ridiculous you bumpkin, we could make it rain. We could afford an entire covert operation without you. We’re not stalking Liam, we’re doing something else that’s completely reasonable that involves lying for days on end.’” Humiliation roils in my stomach. “This trip and the hotel, is that part of it. You were hoping to bribe whatever you want out of me first?”

“Alright!” Damien booms. His fist pounds the table as he joins Virgil in standing. “That’s fucking enough.”

“Think about whatever you’re about to do Damien,” Virgil urges.

“Don’t nag me,” Damien growls.

“Virgil’s right,” Oz wrings their hands. “We have to do this correctly. If we leave anything out s-she’ll think we’re lying, and Elise has been such a good friend to m-me.”

Oz takes a shaky breath. “Elise I never liked you. I mean, I never actually had feelings for you.”

“What?” I falter. 

Oz takes another breath, much deeper than the last, and clasps their hands together. Faint veins bulge under their skin. Damien studies them closely.

“T-The idea was that I would befriend you, be nice to you, get you gifts and s-stuff until we were friends. Then y-you’d listen if we asked you to help us reconcile with Liam. O-obviously when we finally a-asked we were going to be much more careful about w-wording it then the way y-you obviously just figured out.” Oz cracks a small, nervous smile. “It m-made more sense to introduce myself a-as a love prospect, because then all the nice t-things would seem more normal.”

I know it’s only a few seconds as everyone watches me open my mouth, draw a breath and begin to respond. But as I depersonalize everything feels like it enters slow motion. Untethered from my body, it feels like I’m watching some sort of bizarro season of Game of Cards, where a young woman stands surrounded by people she thought were friends, because this is unreal. 

“I encouraged you to go after Damien, and you convinced me I broke your heart,” I recall. “That you were genuinely trying to move on with me, and everything was okay. And I _ pushed _, saying that I was sorry for making you feel bad by encouraging us to break up but that you would be genuinely happier in the end if you just tried going after him. That was such a deep moment to me, and it was just part of your whole relationship-extra-information timeline?”

Damien looks surprised. “You told Oz to go after me?”

I glare at him. “Don’t pretend to be out of the loop.”

“That was real though!” Oz quickly blurts. “Making you feel bad was never part of any plan Elise, I promise. You grew on me so much because of moments just like that. Y-you actually paid attention to my feelings, and you actually genuinely persuaded me to try and set my sights on Damien. I felt like we could still be close if I ended the fake relationship.”

“So you still thought you could keep up this whole thing even if we weren’t fake dating. That’s better I guess,” I say trying to be sarcastic. I’m too disoriented to give it oomph though. Everything feels less and less real.

“It was for a good reason though,” Damien promises.

I stare at him, boneless. 

Damien goes stiff. His usual passion and gusto seem to leave his frame. 

_ Is he steeling himself? _I think.

“When Oz and I were in school, it wasn’t just us. We were part of this larger group of friends. Ah, um, their names were, well.” Damien coughs as his voice gets shaky, and starts up again, tone flatter. “The important thing was that there were six of us, ten if you added in the people Oz lived with. And, I-I guess you could say . . .”

Damien stops, falling into a series of hard, fake coughs I slowly start to realize are sobs. 

“My friends got sick and fucking d-died okay? Three of the five faces I got used to seeing everyday were just gone. Liam was the only person I still saw when people were getting hauled away in body bags.”

“I remember they passed out these shitty little cards with their names on them. They were about the size of those fucking name tags on the train. ‘School made them magnetic to stick to places, that way we could remember them everywhere we go. PGS was a huge fucking dumbass. The thought was nice I guess.

“Oz’s friends tried to be there for us, but they lost a friend too. Her and her boyfriend. Liam was doing about as well as I was, which was pretty fucking shitty, but he also talked less. I thought it was his way of going through his shit and decided to spend more time with Oz who I didn’t know as well, and by the time I realized something was wrong it was like . . .”

Damien makes a sort of grasping motion with his hands at the air, as if he’s trying to find the exact word to describe what he felt. I take in his expression and wonder if there even is one the same time he puts his hands down, giving up.

“It was like his personality changed. When he started snapping at Oz, I told them that maybe it was a good idea to listen to him and sort of distance themselves for a bit. I thought I could cool him down, but it was like they never left, and at one point he said something — I don’t remember what it was — but I decided that I should leave him alone for a while too. A while longer than I thought. He won’t pick up the phone. Not to sound soft or some shit but I’m worried. But more than that I miss my friend.”

As Damien angrily wipes at his face, I feel a deep pang of empathy embed itself in my chest. But the feeling of panic, of not knowing what the people I’ve been traveling with want to do with me, and betrayed confusion from rooting around in my brain to figure which fond memories are fake, still lingers.

_ Don’t apologize. _ A snarkier, bolder version of me hisses in my head. _ Your reaction was completely valid. You’re valid. We’re valid. _

A large presence emerges behind me. I turn. Virgil leans down, somehow making his way across the room while I was distracted by Damien without making a peep. I feel too wrung out to scream or jump in surprise.  
  


“We were going to tell you after what happened on the train,” Virgil promises. “That’s what we’ve been talking to Damien all day about. I’ve lied just as much as Damien and Oz and wanted to come clean. I’ve been trying to keep people from seeing my face because they might’ve recognized me and given it away. I’m known pretty well by my full name, Virgil de Lioncourt. I’m Liam’s brother—”

“Okay _ stop!_” I rasp. “I can’t take it anymore. I understand now you meant well, ultimately, but you have to know that I just can’t get over what you did in a few seconds. And this is too much to digest at once! You’ve been lying to me for months, you’ve known Liam this whole time, I’ve known Liam’s brother and had no idea, you’ve all been playing this 4-D chess game trying to handle loss, and I have to weigh if I can feel like I can ever trust you again against what lead you to all of this in the first place. This is such an insane amount of responsibility you’ve just dropped into my hands. _ My head hurts. _ I want to go home.”

It’s the first thing I’ve heard in the room since the gelato started to melt that doesn’t make my head spin. Images of my dad, fluffy comforter, and the kitchen almost act like a balm to my throbbing head. It becomes just a little bit easier to breath, and my headache gets a little less worse. I repeat it again, surer and desperate.

“Send me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virgil: Okay I guess it’s time for my backstory now —  
Elise: Shut the FUCK up.  
Virgil: D’:
> 
> Author’s Note: Another woozy! I can’t wait for the next chapter and the reappearance of Liam. I missed writing my boy! I also get to really focus on that Mental Health Issues tag. I’ve actually been giving a bit of a hint about that if you’ve been really paying attention to Elise in these last few chapters and if you remember something she shared in the first chapter. Here’s another hint to unscramble if you’re up to it: dod1sa
> 
> P.S. For no particular reason at all I’d like to remind you that six minus three is three.


	14. Comida - Liam de Lioncourt

If someone held me at stake-point and demanded that I say one good thing about my Mother, I’d let them kill me. But I think that briefly, before I sneer at them and tell them to do the deed, I would recall her lunches. Not because she was a good cook, a career hostess and lady of the house with as many pearls as she did never needed to actually touch a pan, but because of how she wielded it.

Comida, like she was, is dual in nature. It is both the Spanish word for food and the largest meal of the day in Spain. Dinner is small and breakfast is even smaller but lunch is king. Likewise, Mother’s comida ran like a court; everyone who sat at the table that didn’t live in the house was undergoing an audience with her. Digesting and vigorous stripping downs aren’t what most people consider very appetizing, so just about all of them started out as “casual” invites. Mother Dictator would invite individuals or small groups to the door of the great de Lioncourt estate, it’s outside heavy with the sort of architectural sophistication seen in Mexican churches and the inside lush with Tuscan style in warm colors. Slowly, the beautiful home would seem more and more fantastical as she ushered guests through beauty and decades of valuable heirlooms, the invitation to a nice meal morphing into something from a fairytale. Awe-struck and stunned, it became clear that the meal they were about to experience wasn’t going to be something big but simple at a run of the mill cafe, so of course they would tolerate Mother’s increasingly intense questions. Eventually the dinner table, a metaphorical fairy ring would appear in their sights, and as they stepped into it the trap would spring; the real evaluations would begin, made inescapable by the social expectation of not leaving in the middle of a meal and the debt almost all people feel like they owe a host once they start eating their food. 

Walking into the dining room on a day when we were expecting company, spotting a stranger uncomfortably wriggling in their seat and just _ knowing _that Mother took it upon herself to decide if someone she bumped into on the street was worthy enough to be of use to her was like watching dark cloud roll in on the horizon. I never possessed the power to stop it, but pretending like the room just didn’t exist for hours on end felt ridiculous. So I’d pull up a chair and listen. At least I got to passively learn about a bevy of cultures while Mother’s hostages struggled through conversation with her. Learning about things other than her mainstream garabge was always a nice break.

So yes, she had been quite good at lunch, and while I’ll never admire how she used it, I can’t deny the effectiveness of easing from a meal into something else, no matter how uncomfortable that second thing is.

I scrutinize the dishes on the table for the hundredth time. My short table is dangerously close to overloading, and the light from the fireplace makes the plates themselves almost blinding. Bright white and geometrical in a way that made them trendy five years ago which means they’re perfectly out of style now, each one is loaded in a wide array of soups, bread, seafood, other meat and potatoes. Ordinarily if I was bingeing — a rare occurrence saved for niche movie marathons — there’d be coffee too. But Elise always hated how it tasted whenever I convinced her to try some.

At the thought of my friend(?), I wring my hands, hoping that co-opting mother’s technique will be just as effective for me as it was for her. I don’t plan on stripping her down to mock her or to see if she has some sort of Machiavellian usefulness for me, but hopefully it would help ease the tension so we could talk about our relationship.

I ignore the impulse to check my phone. Elise still hasn’t responded to the text I sent her while she was away. She started a next text chain to confirm she would show up when I invited her to come over, but the space under my apology and hopes of reconciliation stays maddeningly blank.

_Maybe she wants to respond to it in person._ I muse. People made it obvious before that my longer messages were “only slightly less cringy than someone who texts one-sided conversations with a date because they won’t answer immediately”. I’ve never been one to care about standard practices, so of course I ignored it. But in the case that it might’ve alienated Elise more than my actions already have, I’m actually starting to wish I acted a bit more . . . mainstream.

Trumpets explode through the quiet atmosphere of the house. I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath, taking a second to calm my mind per Dr. Alaric’s advice.

“Nothing Elise has done so far implies any alternative motive. If she still wants to be friends, she’s not trying to lure you into any perilous commitment. Take it one day at a time,” I chant to myself.

The trumpets explode through my house again, and the thespian in me can’t help but feel like it’s heralding my triumph. 

I stride over to the door and open it with a flourish. 

Elise, like always, is perfectly put together, with a face that seems like it glows, one perfectly coordinated outfit, and her signature gold toned jewelry. As my eyes meet her own my stomach drops, weighed down by unreadableness of her expression. She looks neither happy, sad, or angry; a literal dollface.

“May I come in?” She drawls politely.

I step to the side and gesture to the hallway. She walks in and lingers uncertain at the bottom of the stars.

“We’ll be using the third floor,” I clarify.

“The one for personal use?” She asks.

“Yes.” I hope my sincerity is showing as I dismissively wave around at the first floor. “I think you’re past just being a guest.”

She turns, putting her hands on the rail. If her expression changed, I can’t see it.

“Thank you kindly, that’s nice,” she says.

I float after her as we ascend. She stops again when we reach the third floor, waiting to be directly to a room. Maddeningly, I still can’t piece together her disposition. I can’t tell if it’s because she has a good poker face or if she’s having just as hard a time figuring out her emotions.

“I set up things in the kitchen,” I say. “Same place as the last time we talked.”

I wince as soon as I finish saying it. Bringing up the disagreement that put us in this awkward position can’t be helping the awkward atmosphere. But instead of looking uncomfortable, Elise tips her head.

“Set up? Did you make food?” She asks.

“Yes, quite a big lunch. I figure we have a lot to talk about and it might take a while,” I explain.

To my relief, Elise’s face lights up. Her stomach grumbles.

“I could definitely eat right now,” she says. I watch her speed walk towards the kitchen.

_ The universe is finally cutting me a break. _ I think.

We sit down at my table, legs crossed. Elise’s eyes look like they can’t take in the spread fast enough.

“This looks professional Liam,” she compliments. “But I thought you couldn’t eat stuff other than blood.”

“Some of these dishes were made with ingredients that contain blood — like blood sausage, but truthfully I actually can eat things that don’t have blood. I just don’t really need to or have the same impulse to consume it whenever I think of ‘food’,” I tell her. I think I know where this is going.

“But when I brought soup . . .”

Elise trails off. I still; the moment I’ve been both dreading and anticipating finally arrives. 

“Wait!” She exclaims. “Before we do anything, maybe we could start with the rabbit? For good luck, not matter what each of us is expecting?”

She looks sheepish, like she regrets saying the words as soon as they leave her mouth. But it’s not as if I’m brimming with anything other than hope at this point.

_ I’ll take whatever help I can get. _I think.

“I don’t see why not,” I accept.

We both lean forward towards the soup, using stray soups to laddle some into empty bowls. Elise takes a hesitant sip before smiling.

“I tastes sort of like chicken, but it’s way meatier and stronger? Kinda earthy, but I don’t know if that’s the right word,” she describes.

“I take it you’ve never had rabbit before?” I ask.

“No,” she confirms. “I’m pretty limited to the meat I can find at the grocery store and mine doesn’t have any. You’ve seen the soup I have access to.”

She laughs awkwardly, glancing to the side. The moment of brevity is over, and we’ve looped back to what we started talking about.

“When you were over here last time, I didn’t treat you well. At all really,” I start.

“I don’t think that’s completely fair,” Elise interjects. “I think things started out sort of normal and escalated.”

“No,” I disagree. “I knew that when you were going to come over that I was going to be dismissive. But I told myself at most I would be passive aggresive before ghosting you for a while, to make you realize how close I wanted to be, which was not at all. When you offered me those supplies, I let you think that I would graciously find a way to use some of it. I felt petty, even though you didn’t really do anything wrong.”

Elise’s expression sours. “That’s really shitty Liam.”

“I know, so I wanted to apologize. Not just for that but also for the man pain ‘I stand alone’ monologue I tried to give you. When I got upset, I called you being concerned prodding, and I topped it all off with calling you desperate.”

Elise squints at me. “You’re being really concise about all of this.”

“I put a lot a thought into it,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.

She shakes her head. “No, that’s not it. It reminds me of something . . . you went to therapy!”

I reel. “How did you know?”

“You sound exactly like I do whenever I make a breakthrough with a therapist. I used to try to say what they summarized in my own words, but it ends up sounding really awkward, so I basically just repeat it,” she explains.

“Have you told me that you’ve gone to therapy before?” I ask, surprised. “I feel like I would have remembered it. Not to sound cliche, but I never would’ve figured you would go to therapy.”

“I’m pretty sure I haven’t,” she confirms. “Then again my memory can be spotty. It’s nice that you think I would never need therapy, but I’ve basically been going since the end of high school. Not consistently, but definitely more than once.

“Since we’re talking about mental stuff though, I want to say that even though I don’t think I ever acted on it in an obvious way, I was being kind of clingy in my head, so maybe your intuition picked up on that or something.”

She hesitates, looking at me warily. “And while I agree that your lashing out wasn’t cool, I can understand getting riled up in the first place because someone took advantage of your . . . philosophy? I’m not sure that’s the right word. I accept your apology, but if your intention is to be friends again — and I’ll tell you now that’s what _ I’ve _ been hoping for — you might not want to be anymore. When we weren’t talking I kind of ended up learning more about your personal business than you probably want me to know.”

My body snaps to attention, my anxiety about lunch quickly shifting to a deep sense of foreboding. I push the past deep down enough that having it come up right now feels like whiplash. I know she has to be referring to the past, because since moving to Salt I’ve been doing less than nothing. The only business I have is from Before. Clenching my jaw, I feel my fangs grind against my molars and scrape my gums. This isn’t how I imagined Elise possibly accepting my apology at all.

“What are you talking about?” I force my voice to stay even.

She takes a deep breath. “This is a long story. And I know it’s going to sound ludicrous but you have to believe me okay? I have never done anything to try and fuck with you on purpose.”

My fear rises. “You never responded to my text,” I point out.

“I didn’t read it,” she admits. “I was so terrified that it would say you never wanted to see me again that I just couldn’t bring myself to actually see what you said. I enjoyed hanging out with you so much that the idea of losing you and not having someone to hang out with anymore was almost paralyzing.”

“Which,” she bitterly laughs. “Is actually how everything I’m about to tell you started.”

“Just a little while after we met, someone approached me and asked me out on a date. Later that day, they happened to have an anxiety attack so I ended up traveling with them to the hospital.”

I only know one “they”. My hand balls up my shirt, veins bulging under my fingertips.

_ And one always follows after the other _ . . . I remember.

“Later their boss showed up with a man. Eventually my date was discharged and we brought them home, and their boss seemed to ask me to be friends with them out of concern for their wellbeing. The man that was following him around the whole time said little.”

I rake my other hand through my hair as the first twists deeper into my shirt. My body feels like a can of shaken soda. I struggle to contain the rise of terror, not because I gained a phobia of “someone” who was obviously fucking Damien, but because I can start to feel my thoughts start to go all over the place. I’ve accidentally reminded myself of my old friends a few times over the past year, but thinking about them for an entire conversation is going to bring everything back, and I’m just not ready for the soul crushing grief I know will follow.

“Over the next few weeks I hung out with them — ah, the singular them not all three of them — until they invited me out on a trip. When we got to the city, I overheard a conversation, and it turns out they basically encouraged me to befriend them so they could try and convince me to help them reconnect with you. They sounded like they did it for a good reason but there were so many lies. I swear I had no idea they were doing it. Oz, Damien, and Virgil —“

I grab onto the moment of bewildered reprieve in my building dread hearing my brother’s name — another surprise, but one whose pain is far less fresh — gives me. Stumbling to my feet, my knees bang against the table and send a few dishes sliding off the table onto the floor.

“Stop,” I wheeze. “Stop going. I believe you just stop talking about it.”

Elise sounds earnest, and if it can shut this line of conversation now, I’m more than happy to tell her I believe her.

_ Do I actually believe her? _ I ponder. The answer comes quickly. _ Yes. _

It would be a pretty terrible game of 4D chess if Elise knew about me all along, decided to lie to me about it, and then revealed a twisted version of the truth when things were tense between us. 

Elise looks worried, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” I brace myself against the wall. “It’s just that those people bring up a lot. I’m sorry they did all that to you just to get to me.”

“I just really wanted companionship,” she confesses. “I guess we both let our worse parts take advantage of us: lone wolf-manship fueled by the fear of losing people you’re close to and blind eyes fueled by the desire to be close to people.”

Elise is nice and engaging; a fresh start with someone who genuinely wants a fulfilling platonic relationship with me. Not only do I feel disturbed that the simplicity of our relationship was dragged into this whole conspiracy, but the fact that she now feels guilty over what was a long deception leaves me feeling queasy.

“Like I said, I believe you. And you forgive me. So let’s just move on and be friends again,” I propose.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Elise flops back unto the floor. “Well that’s like a billion pounds off my chest.”

Silence stretches between us. Even if everything is patched up, it’s hard to think of a natural way to get back to normal conversation.

“So.” Elise clears her throat. “No face scar?”

She taps her temple in the same place my concussion bandage used to be.

“I heal quickly, vampiric powers and all,” I say.

She snorts. “Wish I could say the same.”

She drums her fingers against a spattering of old scars on her arms. I notice more on her legs.

“What are those from?” I ask.

“Picking at my skin when I was younger. I used to have a lot more anxiety so it was sort of a bad habit I picked up without thinking,” she explains.

I wince. “You don’t do it anymore hopefully?”

“No, and my anxiety is just about gone too.” She yawns, “Freyja, this conversation had a lot more to do with mental health than I thought it was going to.”

I pause. “We could do it again. Now that it’s out in the open, we could move forward and support one another with these sorts of things.”

After the general feeling of foulness that settled over me after our fight, I definitely don’t want to go through anything like it again. Being clearer and more open seems like a solid place to start.

_ Yes, a friendship that not only involves enjoying the same interests, but shares a deep intimacy that’s completely separate from romantic love. _ I conceptualize. _Completely rejecting the expectations of heteronormativity! _

Elise looks a little nervous. “I _ should _ expand my support system. I’ve never done it with a friend before but it would be a good way to start focusing on my mental health again . . . Okay! I have DID!”

“I didn’t mean you had to divulge information right at this moment,” I tell her. It takes me a few more seconds to process what she’s told me. “You have Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“You know what it is?” She asks.

“I’ve learned a lot over the years. That’s the updated term for Multiple Personality Disorder, right?” I check.

Looking more than a little stunned, she reaches for the black backpack she brought in place of a purse. She pulls out a book with a detailed dragon carved into the leather of the cover.

“Yes, but I have OSDD-1A, which is a more specific subcategory. Kind of like there are different levels of PTSD if that makes sense? I’m in a place where the fragments of my personality aren’t fully formed people, and I don’t black out when I switch. My memory in general is just sort of wonky. I take on different traits at random points in time but it doesn’t feel like anything has changed until someone points out I’m acting differently, or I try to do something that was easy before but suddenly feels awkward and unpracticed. I’m more so different versions of myself than different people. In order to define the traits I use this book to record a system I came up with. But I’ve kind of been neglecting it and just started back up again.”

She presses her mouth into a thin line. “I sort of got wrapped up in socializing and forgot a few of the things I was doing before like this. I’m actually not sure if I switched during our argument, or when I was on the train recently. But not anymore! From now on I’m going to focus on this again and career stuff.”

“I wouldn't have guessed if you didn’t tell me. I’m going to take my issues more seriously as well,” I promise.

“Happy New Years,” she jokes. “At least our resolutions aren’t something shitty like go to the gym everyday.”

“We should finish up here. Once we’re done and 1:30 rolls around we can take a nap. They’re traditional after a meal like this,” I say.

“Spain is amazing,” she declares. “But there is one more thing I should confess. It’s not bad or anything. I just forgot it happened and figure I should bring it up.”

“Go ahead,” I encourage.

“On the day we met, I meditated in the morning. I had this vision . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I’ve made Elise feel like a wellrounded character. I was afraid introducing her as someone who is very pretty and is good at brightening the mood made her come off as Mary Sue-ish, but I want to also characterize her as someone who is:
> 
> \- Admittedly kinda desperate like Liam pointed out in their original argument, which is why she was so open to Oz and co.
> 
> \- Materialistic in a way, easily awed by the shopping Oz gave her on their first “date” and the opportunity to go on an incredibly upscale vacation completely paid for by her friends. It wasn’t as if she met them yesterday, but I think any middle class person would at least do a bit more questioning that she did.
> 
> You can also count the fact that she’s focused on her appearance but I don’t really think that’s really a flaw since she doesn’t really mention it a lot when it comes to thinking about herself or other people.
> 
> \- Has a tendency towards neglect which you can see in how she’s been approaching her mental illness and how she managed to drop something as big as her career when another thing came on her docket.


	15. Holiday Plans - Elise of Salt

“That scone looks fucking delicious”

I stare enviously at Liam’s plate. It slowly condensates with the steam from the biscuit-cake as the smell of cinnamon and brown sugar starts to cloud our table.

He smiles smugly. “You want some?”

“Yes!” I exclaim eagerly, pushing my saucer forward.

“Too bad,” he snickers.

“Liam!” I groan.

When we both went to the coffee counter to order, our different tastes immediately became clear. I got excited the second I saw they were selling Thai iced tea, something I tried at a hot pot restaurant a while ago and immediately loved. Liam’ meanwhile, ordered a tall mug of the blackest coffee I’d ever seen; the bitterness could be felt through the air. He’d decisively ordered the scone; I fretted over the menu until I felt like I was being rude to the other people behind us in line. I kinda wish I just copied him and got a scone instead of hurriedly pointing to bread. My portion was way smaller and now I’m going to have to watch him finish.

“I don’t know how you’re still hungry. That pumpkin bread was gone before I could finish blinking. Watching you inhale it was like seeing a snake unhinge its jaw,” Liam roasts.

“Was it disturbing enough that you lost your appetite?” I ask hopefully.

“Nope,” he hums. 

He picks up a fork and delicately pushes it into the scone’s flakey surface, coming back up with a perfect, tiny scoop of soft crumbles. As pretty as it looks, at the quantity and pace he’s going at, Liam is going to take an eternity.

“That has to be the bougiest way I’ve ever seen someone eat a pastry pumpkin.” I smirk.

Liam chokes on another bite. “Pumpkin?”

“I figure since I have the accent, I should try doing that thing some southern women do where they call everyone nicknames. That way if I’m ever in a situation where someone’s being a dick and I want to tell them to eat it without being called out by everyone else, I can call them honey. And if they try to say I’m being passive aggressive, I can be like ‘that’s just how I talk.’” I clench my first. “Power move.”

Liam takes a swig from his mug. “I’m guessing business school is getting a little intense?”

“Not really. My GPA is stellar and my personalized major is moving at the proper pace. Honestly ever since I got off Honors probation and officially 100% became an Honors student again, I’ve been trying not to stress myself out about school too much. I just want to be prepared,” I explain.

“I admire the proactiveness behind your pettiness,” Liam says sarcastically.

I lean forward, grinning. “Don’t get on my case for pettiness Mr. ‘Your Palette Looks Like It Was Sampled From A Mound Of Shit.’”

Liam smirks, the smile stretching all the way across his face.

“If someone wants to self elect themselves as head of the class and rudely critique everyone’s work when the professor cancels late, they should be able to take what they can throw,” he says.

“I can’t believe you’re taking an art class here! Maybe I should take a painting class,” I muse.

“Yes, well, Dr. Alaric says I should get out more outside our hangouts and wine tastings so I bit the bullet.” He looks at me critically. “You, meanwhile, have so many pastimes I’m surprised you don’t burn out more than you already do.”

“If I’m being honest sometimes I don’t know if it’s because I just want to do everything that looks cool or if it’s a side effect of my DID. But it’s not like they haven’t paid off.” I grin and clap my hands. “My YouTube is soaring. _ I’m _ in a JaidenAnimations video.”

“I have no idea who that is,” Liam wryly replies.

I flick a crumb at him. “You know you’re real sassy today.”

“It’s the new Fernsby boots.” He flashes his new heeled kicks.

“I have no idea who that is,” I admit.

“Exactly!” 

Someone loudly clears their throat. Liam and I look up. A woman wearing a shirt that says Expedition: Underworld makes a shushing motion before shuffling off to a corner of the cafe. Something about it feels strangely familiar, until the origin clicks into place. I turn my attention back to Liam, hoping he didn’t notice.

I wince, identifying the small wrinkle in his nose that always appears when he’s trying not to sneer. _ He did. _

“I’m fine,” he assures me before I can ask. “Really I am. It’s just the last thing I want to think about right now is my brother.”

It’s been about a month since what happened in Manhattan. Though Liam and I spent a stressless October together hanging out again, that didn’t get rid of the looming memory our old friends left behind. Even on the best of the best days, there was always the possibility that they could just show up and start up drama all over again. After failing to contact Liam on their own, and then trying to weasel their way to him through manipulating me, it seems like they’re pretty determined when it comes to getting what they want. But ever since Liam and I reconciled, it’s been radio silence on their end.

That hasn’t kept them from living rent-free in our heads.

I watch Liam take off his round Ringo-style glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. He’s styled like a wraith with that’s just discovered a color different than black, with a fishtail braid streaked with pink extensions, one wide brimmed black boaters hat with a dramatic veil, some sort of long sleeved long legged romper with enough excess fabric that it billows in the wind whenever we step outside, and a pair of blush toned cowboy boots. But as he starts to gaze into the reflection of his shades, Liam looks less like the vibrant, living statement piece he became the moment he sat down and more like someone adrift in space.

“How . . . Was my brother?” He asks.

“Huh?” _ Definitely wasn’t expecting that. _“You want to know?”

“I’m still upset that you-know-them roped you into a scheme, but Virgil, I don’t know, I didn’t expect his name to come up at all. I haven’t seen him in forever. Much longer than . . .”

Liam presses his mouth into a thin line, refusing to say their names.

“Well,” I say. ”Uh, he thought a lot, and was kind of seemed generally intense even if he wasn’t doing anything. But not in an unhappy way? I think that’s his general demeanor. He seemed to get pretty engaged when it came to everything that went down on the train. Trying to be objective, he looked healthy. He had a broad, muscular figure, so he’s eating well.”

I give Liam a once over. “I’m embarrassed I didn’t realize you were related in retrospect. You’ve both got the same cheekbones and eyes. You were just much slimmer and ragged when I first met you. I didn’t make the connection. I’m glad you’re taking better care of yourself.”

If Liam registered my last comment, he doesn’t show it. “He _would_ be all eager to show off for a train full of people, even if the circumstances are murder. The second he hit his teens he’d jump through flaming hoops for our parents. I was stuck with them for a hundred years before they suddenly decided to pop out another heir. I thought he would be a refuge from their constant badgering to be the quintessential sanguisuge I used to be, and for a hot second he was. Marlon Teixeira looking bandwagoner.”

No one around us seems to be listening in on our conversation, but the direction it’s veered into feels intimate enough that the cafe isn’t appropriate anymore.

Also, like, I need a hot second to digest that Liam uses models he thinks are too mainstream as insults.

“Do you want me to get a to-go bag for your scone?” I ask.

Liam catches on. “Yeah, I’ll start up my truck.”

I take his plate as he heads out the door. Walking up to the counter, I awkwardly reject the barista that offers to give me the bag in exchange for my number, slide Liam’s pastry into the pouch and hurry out the door. Liam’s antique truck catches the attention of some older people eating outside, so I hop into the passenger seat before we can be roped into an hour long “they-don't-make'em-like-they-used-to” conversation.

“So you’re ready to talk about this?” I ask.

Liam frowns. “Have you been waiting for me to?”

“Not really. It just seems like everything that happened is a little too big for us to never mention literally any of it again,” I explain.

“I wish we could,” Liam says. He begins to pull out of the parking lot.

“He’s younger than me, so I’m being a little hard on him if I’m honest. It’s just that with the way family culture operated, the change made everything feel so out of place. Families are really close in Spain, so whenever I went somewhere alone because I didn’t want to feel like a plus one or get nagged, everyone was so silently loud about it. It was like wearing black to a wedding. It was already bad since I first fell from their graces, but with another kid it was even more vexing. Sometimes you just want to dramatically loom in a graveyard without gossips passive aggressively interrupting you every ten seconds.”

Liam dramatically flicks his hand, but what he says sounds genuine.

“Staying on the estate was a crapshoot, because if there wasn’t nagging there was the chance of hearing Mother and Father bicker over their respective cultures. I have to give it to Virgil, I don’t know how he put up with their dick measuring so patiently,” Liam explains. 

“How old is Virgil in comparison to you? Like if you’ve both been alive for a while what’s the vampire-to-human ratio?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment. “I suppose I would be late twenties, he would be early twenties.”

Liam clears his throat as we pause at a stoplight. “But that’s enough of my ranting. I’m done venting. I haven’t thought about him in such a long time that when I heard his name I couldn’t stop wondering about how he got with my old friends. _ Why _ did he?”

“Maybe he wanted to reconnect,” I propose.

“Well he bungled that,” Liam snorts.

We sit in silence as Liam continues to drive. I realize we’re heading back to his apartment complex, which sets me on an entirely different train of thought.

_ Is he going to be okay in that big place all alone over the holidays? I know it’s just the beginning of November, but Christmas always comes faster than you think. Everything will be closed down, and it’ll be just him. _I think.

“How much has this been weighing on you? I know you just said you were wondering how and why he got wrapped up in the whole scheme, but have you been agonizing over it, or is it just a ‘in my quiet moments’ thing?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it.” He brushes me off. “If it was bad I wouldn’t just be venting in a truck.”

“It’s just I don’t want you feeling like shit with the holidays approaching,” I admit. “It’s not like I’m going to a big Elise reunion —“

“Elise reunion?” Liam interrupts, confused. “Are you part of an . . . Elise horde?”

“No? I’m talking about my family,” I say.

“Why would you refer to your family as yourself but in the plural?” Liam asks.

“Oh! I forgot I’ve never told you. Elise is my last name. So I meant Elise reunion as in like, the entire Elise family,” I clarify.

“So you dad goes by Mr. Elise?” Liam inquires.

“Yeah,” I confirm.

“Huh.”

“Back to what I was saying, it’s not like I’m going to a big family reunion, but I still have my dad. Are you going to be okay by yourself on Christmas?” I ask.

“There are more pressing things to be worried about then whether I can live up to the expectations of a corporate holiday.” Liam leans towards me as we approach his street. “Like if you found out anything more about your vision.”

I shrug helplessly. “Not more than the normal generic Google search results: you can see stuff if you visualize hard enough and contact your inner spirit, repackaged Buddhism for chics in yoga pants, your guardian angel/spirit animal/the devil is trying to contact you, etc.”

“I haven’t had much luck either. We can really only go off what we know for certain, which is that a thing you dreamed came true. Depending on whether it happens again, you might be prophetic,” he theorizes.

“I’d rather just be really proficient at ceremonial magic and sigils,” I grumble.

“It might be useful to you yet. Don’t be so quick to dismiss it,” he says.

He pulls his truck in front of his apartment complex and stops. I move to open my door but he gets out before me and beats me to it. I step out, confused, until I realize he’s trying to get another word in before we head inside.

“He fell pretty hard for people he felt attracted to, to the point that he would completely ignore any criticisms of them from our parents. Would go with them anywhere and get them anything. Besides frustrating our parents, which I was always game for, it was admittedly adorable to watch.” He recalls. “I’m talking about Virgil; that’s one positive thing I remember about him, since you seem worried I’m letting him enrage me. I have a bunch of mixed feelings, and they’re not all positive, but I promise I’m fine. I’m just thinking a lot.”

“I’ll let it go then,” I acquiesce.

My phone buzzes as I follow him into the house. Expecting my father, I quickly open up my texts to assure him I’m doing okay when I check the contact name and go stock still.

Liam stops at the bottom of the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

“They just texted me. All of three of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough Timeline: Meetings In August —> Trip Late September —> Currently November
> 
> I gave Liam a truck because I think it would be more expected if he had a car and the last thing Liam de Lioncourt is is predictable.
> 
> I’ve been dying waiting for my two favorite fanfics in this fandom to update so I decided to channel the energy into updating early.


	16. 16 Reasons To Love The Personification of Fear - Damien LaVey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a sex scene. Scroll to the text messages at the end of you wish to skip it.

I haven’t seen Ozzie in a dress in a long time. That’s not to say I’ve been starved of Oz looking hot as shit. Before I even knew what my feelings were for them, Oz regularly strolled into work in an array of well tailored suits that seemed to hug their fucking body like paint on a canvas; not out of violation of shitty company policy, but because they’re lithe and slim fit clothes just Did That to them. But just like how a sunset doesn’t get any less beautiful because you’ve seen it a shit ton of times, I’m not going to complain if I get to see a rare sighting of Oz’s long ass legs.

The piece is a mix of tight fabric that contoured to their body and loose ruffles. The latter makes up the dress’s sleeves and the rim of the skirt, but everything else is snug. I can see the outline of two of their best assets, and a little bit of musculature.

“D-Damien once Virgil gets here I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stare at me. Telling our friend the news while you have a boner feels like i-it would sort of undercut the moment,” Oz requests, blushing.

My grin softens as I realize I’m making them flustered. Draping an arm around their shoulder, I pull Ozzie close to my chest. Their heart is racing so fast it feels like it might explode through their fucking chest.

I forget what I planned on saying. “Did you take your meds?”

“Yes,” Oz says.

“It doesn’t feel like it! Is your new psychiatrist a fucking quack? Your heart is like a godsdamned jackhammer,” I scowl.

“Sometimes it takes a bit for medicine to kick in. Besides, I’m already more flustered than normal because you’re here,” Oz explains.

The idea that I not only started to make Oz uncomfortable by staring, but that they were already keyed up when we met up this morning makes my stomach churn.

“Well shit Ozzie, you should’ve told me. I didn’t mean to make you feel so anxious today,” I say.

“I don’t mean a bad sort of flustered. I mean, ever since I liked you sort of flustered,” Oz replies.

“Oh shit then.” I smirk. “I still give you butterflies after all this time? That’s really fucking sappy Ozzie.”

“We’ve only been d-dating for a month Damien,” Oz points out. They twiddle their long fingers. It’s adorable.

“Still, tell me if you get dizzy or something. Just because it’s normal doesn’t mean that it’s good. Or that it won’t get worse,” I order.

“Yes Boss,” Oz agrees. They nudge me with their hip.

Besides Oz, there isn’t much to look at. The hotel hallway is nice enough for like, a fucking hallway. After weeks of getting used to it from visiting and picking up Virgil, it’s extra boring.

“Balls, where is he?” I look around. “The least he’s can do if he’s not answering his phone is be at his fucking hotel room.”

Almost as if he was waiting for a stage cue, the elevator doors at the end of the hall open and Vigil de Assfuck strolls out. His hair, already a thick collection of wispy curls, looks messier than normal. When he stops in front of us to pull out his keys I pick up a stale smell.

“There you are you fucktrumpet! We’ve been waiting forever for you,” I complain.

“Why didn’t you just call me?” Virgil hums.

“You weren’t picking up,” Oz says.

“Because you were busy fucking,” I put together.

“Coming in?” He asks. He doesn’t smirk or start bragging at my comment, but the twinkle in his eye that he gets whenever he wants to mess with me says I’m not wrong.

Oz and I trail inside. I resist the urge to sulk; somehow it’s gotten even cooler in here since Oz and I popped in two days ago. Even though I know Virgil is part of an adventure show, it’s been hard to picture him bounding around, smiling ear to ear, and talking with the booming Dwayne Johnson-esque personality Oz told me about. But his room makes it undeniable.

A small curved knife inscribed with a weird ass language I don’t know sits in a stand on his dresser. Dramatic looking tapestries depicting fucking gruesome battles and monsters are tossed over the desk chair and the two luxury recliners the hotel provides. Half of the bed is covered in ferocious looking masks with paint peeling from age. Papers with messy scrawl are taped to half of a wall. And now a tall ornate looking gas lamp, otherwise known as the best way to non-magically carry fire, shares space with the knife on the dresser.

“You like?” Virgil prods.

“Fucking obviously!” I cross my arms.

Oz sighs. “Boss you’re literally a millionaire. You can buy stuff like this whenever you want.”

“It’s not the same as finding it on some big ass expedition! You found this stuff right?” I ask him.

“Yes,” Virgil confirms.

“He didn’t have luggage when he got here so he must’ve got it sent over from whatever fuckhole he’s living in. Which means there’s an entire house full of cool shit that’s not my shit,” I say.

“Does this new train of thought mean you don’t care what I was doing anymore?” Virgil asks.

“I already said you were fucking. What else is there to add?” I ask.

“While I wouldn’t use that language, I did happen to meet someone nice last night. He strolled up to me, said ‘scorpio sun, cancer moon, aquarius rising’, and after showing me what a natal chart is, it turned out he was right. Pegged my planet things immediately,” he recounts.

“You believe in astrology Virgil?” Oz asks, sounding surprised.

“I fucking don’t,” I comment. “I’ll do whatever the Hell I want. I’m the one that makes shit happen, not the shitty sun.”

“Not quite,” Virgil admits. “But have you ever met someone who's into it that’s boring? The conversation was very lively, and I ended up getting to see his nice apartment.”

“So you’re gay?” I ask.

“Pan,” he corrects. “Why?”

“Sometimes you just have really strong straight-dude-pondering-over-his-shitty-thesis energy,” I say.

“ . . . Damien that’s the first insult of yours that’s actually hurt my feelings.”

“We should get to the reason we came here,” Oz interrupts. “They texted us back.”

Virgil stills. His eyebrows start to move before he forces his face to be still, turning it into an indecipherable mask. The only thing that’s clear is the intensity of his eyes as he looks us over, searching for a clue on whether the news is good or bad.

“What did they say?” He quietly demands.

“Where would we even begin?” Oz and I synchronize.

“That’s it? They didn’t say anything about the apology itself?” He rumbles.

I ball my hands into fists. “I mean, I guess we can’t fucking blame them. Things with Elise went to shit, and I doubt Liam liked what she definitely must’ve told him.”

I’m a LaVey, so the inevitable hasn’t changed. I **am** going to see Liam again. Besides, with Elise now added as a friend, it’s basically a brand new situation. I would’ve needed a new plan anyway. Probably. 

_ But uh, maybe I should get more help coming up with the next plan. _

“I’m open to suggestions moving forward,” I announce. “If either of you has the slightest idea to get out of this clusterfuck I’m all ears.”

Oz takes a deep breath and dips into their bucket purse. Pulling out a notepad, they uncap a pen and start writing.

“The first step to tackling any problem is to break it down into smaller, more manageable problems. There’s the one they brought up, how would we start. I-I guess it would be by choosing what t-to talk about first. T-Then we would choose a place to talk. W-wait, n-n that would come first—”

Oz cut themselves off, grasping at their chest. Taking deep breaths, they toss the notepad and stumble as they sit down.

“Ozzie?” I dive after them, gathering their body in my arms. 

“I’ll call an ambulance.” Virgil pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m not having an anxiety attack,” they wheeze. “I’m just a little bit close to it.”

“Call that fucking ambulance!” I shout.

“I’m fine, don’t call anyone,” Oz begs. “I’ve been thinking about how I didn’t have an anxiety attack on the train even though I still freaked out, and I realized I’ve gone four months without one. I can calm down, don’t break my streak!”

“You should really go to a hospital Oz,” Virgil disagrees.

“Fucking Virgil is right. Come on, I’ll carry you downstairs.” I start to pick them up.

“Why don’t you think I can do anything?” Oz suddenly hisses at me. “You think I can’t handle your feelings about our friends, you don’t think I can calm myself down! You say it’s just because of my condition, but I’ve proved I can keep from going off the edge during a goddamned murder scenario and you’re still treating me like I can’t handle shit! I know I can’t make my medical condition disappear with will power but I’ve made progress! Put me down!”

Every word sounds like Oz is about to run out of breath, but their eyes are focused on mine in a way they usually aren’t when they start freaking out. Stunned, I relax my arms, watching Oz land on their feet and maintain eye contact. At first I think they’re about to say something else, until I realize they’re using my eyes as a focus. Forcing themselves to inhale deeply, they start with ragged breaths and slowly turn back to normal in about three minutes.

Virgil claps. “Well done.”

Oz gets to their feet. They pick up their notepad, frowning, and dust themselves off.

“I should’ve waited a bit before sharing the news with you Virgil. The ambiguity is nerve wracking enough, reiterating it to someone else and trying to come up with a plan for this entire situation is another thing altogether. I’ll call you later today; spacing all of this out time wise will make it a little easier to handle,” Oz says.

Quickly turning on their heels, Oz dusts themselves off and stalks out of the room. There’s a distinct lack of eye contact with me.

“What the fuck just happened?” I ask Virgil, dumbfounded.

“You just had your first fight,” he says.

“But I barely said anything?” I claim.

Virgil shrugs. “They were pretty clear on why they were mad. How much you talked wasn’t really a factor.”

Growling, I bound out the door after Oz, trying to beat them before they get to the elevator.

“Goodbye then?” Virgil calls after us.

Oz glances back at me as I run up behind them. They don’t pick up the pace, but they don’t make a mad dash to the elevator either, letting me grab their wrist.

“I was just worried about you! You know how your anxiety attacks can get,” I insist.

“That doesn’t mean you just ignore what I say like I’m not even there,” they argue.

“Virgil ignored you too!” I yell.

“Virgil isn’t my boyfriend!” Oz shouts back.

Yanking their wrist from my grip, they finish walking to the elevator and push the down button. Stomping inside, they angrily wave me over.

“You want me to come with you?” My frustration morphs into confusion.

“_ Obviously. We're going on a date,” they huff._

“ . . . What the shit?” 

“Just get in Damien!” Oz yells.

“Shut up!” An occupant in one of the rooms demands.

If Oz didn’t look so impatient, I would tell whoever it was to revert back into sperm and go back into their father’s ballsack. Turning around at all of the doors and giving them the finger as collateral, I stride next to Oz.

As soon as the doors close, they whip their head around towards me and cross their arms.

“Am I just glass to you?” Oz asks.

“What the shit? No? I’m just looking out for your fucking health,” I say.

“Yeah, but that’s kind of all you’re been talking about lately. You tell people I’m great in vague terms but the only thing you go into detail about are my anxiety attacks,” Oz accuses.

“Well yeah, if we’re hanging out with people and they have a bunch of shitty ideas about what we should do, they should know to keep head-stuff in mind,” I argue.

“What else?” Oz begs me. “You didn’t have a problem coming up with other things when I was just your assistant. What else besides anxiety attacks and being cute?”

Oz has an assload of other fucking hot qualities, but I’m too flustered to think of one quickly. Oz withdraws by the time I begin to stutter, and the crushed look on their face nearly breaks my stupidass heart. Their features steel. Grabbing my hand they lead my through the lobby out the door.

“Lets have it at the office. That’s where the chessboard is,” they say.

“I don’t get why you want to have a date with me if you’re upset?” I ask.

“Because I wanted this relationship for too long to find out it won’t work out in the first month,” Oz declares.

“Ozzie, babe, I promise I don’t only have two things I like about you! I just live in the moment! We’ve just been in scenarios for the past few weeks where those two things ended up being the focus, so that’s what I commented on. If something else came up I would say all sorts of nice shit,” I say.

Oz looks at me cautiously. “Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” I take their hands in mind.

They sigh. “I know it sounds stupid, but so many of my favorite memories of us happened over chess. I thought if we played it you would ‘remember’ or something.”

“Someone’s been reading a lot of romance books,” I gently chide. 

“I’m sorry. Maybe I overreacted a bit. Waiting a month to give them space and thinking up what to say has been really stressful, and I keep thinking about all the times before Elise overheard us that maybe I could have convinced you to stop. I could’ve owned up to how badly I felt it was going to end . . .” Oz shrugs, looking tired. I can’t blame them; cycling from angry to remorse so quickly must’ve been fucking exhausting.

“Ozzie, I didn’t realize the plan made you feel that bad. But I also didn’t pay attention when you and Virgil told me we should reconsider after the fucking train. I’ve been a shithead, but I’m going to listen this time.” 

I tuck a short curl of hair out of Oz’s face behind their ear. “We could still go play chess if you want.”

Oz smiles. “I’d love that.”

* * *

  
Oz slams the flat of their hand against the button on the dual faced clock. The pair of hands on my side of the timer start ticking, but you didn’t need to know chess to see that I’m beyond fucked. Oz’s side of the table is crowded with my little black shitheads, while I only have one of their white ones — and I’m pretty sure they’d given me that one out of pity. If I was still in high school, I’d probably get pissy over my inevitable loss, but Oz looks too hot for me to care.

Never one to focus on people’s faces Oz is fixed on the main factor in the room, the chessboard, something I’d seen them do time after time in meetings. Not stupid enough to mistake their downcast gaze as submissive like most idiots in suits who walk into the LaVey Salt Headquarters, I can tell they’re plotting my defeat with quiet passion, and it’s starting to send a certain kind of heat through my body.

“Your move,” Oz softly reminds me.

“If you still want to hear about rad things I like about you, I’ve always appreciated how you’ve never let some pissbaby convince you to rehaul your personality to succeed. You’ve always found out how to do things your way. It’s fucking hot.” I brush my tail against their leg.

“Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere Boss,” Oz says, still looking at the board.

“Shit Ozzie, who says it’s just mindless flattery? I’ve always appreciated your duality, how you’re always your quiet self and whatever we need to get through the workday at the same time.” I continue undeterred. “It’s like your hands. Slender and calloused, long but just the right size.”

I take one of their hands, press it against my lips and grin.

Oz’s eyes widened. “Oh! Sex!”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I remind them.

“I do! Wait, is this some secret strategy to throw me off my game?” Oz crosses their arms. “Because if it is then no.”

“Ozzie no offense, but I promise I don’t give that much of a fuck about chess.”

Sweeping the small playing table between us to the side with my leg, I wrap my tail around the legs of their chair and yank them towards me. They fall into my chest and twist their hands into my shirt, grinning at me toothily.

“That’s just because you suck at it,” they say.

I can’t resist the opportunity. “You know what _ else _ I suck?”

I grab their shoulders and yank us to the floor. Cushioning Oz on top of me as we land with a thud, I groan in surprise as they fuse our mouths together. Oz kisses the same way they exist; carefully but anxiously, calculated but quiet. They remember I like it when they’re just a little forceful so I can feel their breath quicken as they get turned on, but they can’t quite keep from changing the tilt of their head every other second as I start to kiss back. They only give me a few seconds of their tongue in my mouth as I pop the buttons on my shirt, trailing their lips down my neck before I can jack up the pace. I can feel them smiling as they go lower and lower; for all the noises they’ve drawn out of me they haven’t made a peep.

Reaching behind themself as they straddle my torso, they beat me to the punch and palm my crotch. My hips jerk towards their touch, a bolt of pleasure flashing through my body as my heartbeat fills my ears. Grunting, I reach up, grab their arms, and pin them under me. The urge to have some sex is replaced by the instinct to fuck; my cock is starting to press against the zipper of my pants, and as I grind the bulge against Oz all I can think about is thrusting.

Oz mewls. Their thighs spasm under me, but I’m a little too low on their waist for them to really move their legs. I shove my hands under their body and feel for a zipper. 

“Oz, help me take this off you,” I groan.

Breaking their silence with frantic panting, Oz reaches behind themselves and fumbles, eyes clouded with arousal. Maybe we should’ve stripped before we got too horny to think straight but it’s too late now.

Growling I grab the collar of their dress and yank it down. I hear the zipper split as I force it to unzip and toss the dress to the side before wetting my lips at the sight under me.

Oz’s form is fairly androgynous today. They have a cute pair of small tits and a long dark cock with a slight curve to it. I pinch a nipple before taking their cock in hand, rolling the former with my thumb and giving the later a pump with my fist. Oz’s hips jerk up against mine and we both groan at the friction. 

“Didn’t you just rip my clothes off Damien? Take off your pants,” Oz whines.

My body feels like a furnace as I move off of Oz and resettle between their long legs. I place a kiss on their calf, wishing I had the time to caress them, but appreciating Oz’s definition is going to have to wait another day. I can’t ignore my throbbing dick anymore.

I yank down my fly. Relief that my boner isn’t squeezed inside my pants anymore is quickly dashed as it throbs incessantly against my boxers. The overwhelming urge to thrust returns. I don’t bother taking off the rest of my clothes. Pulling the waistband of my underwear down I let my length pop out, grab Oz’s, and press them together in a firm fist.

“Damien!” Oz moans.

“_Fuck _ yes,” I grunt, esctasy filling my body.

Oz’s throbbing feels fucking fantastic as we slide against each other, fucking into my fist. As we go faster and faster the breaks between pulses of pleasure get smaller and smaller. Smacking my free hand against one of Oz’s breasts, I grope it mercilessly. Oz cries out, the head of his cock beading with precum, his hand reaching down to help. They guide me in a rough pattern that I’m almost afraid is too much for them. But the sound of our moaning only gets louder. 

We start to drown out each other’s voices, precum weeping down both of our cocks onto the floor. A particularly hard thrust upwards makes Oz’s dick spasm and I know they’re about to cum. I circle the tip of their cock with my thumb and they’re gone. Gasping, Oz’s load pulsates all over their shaft and mine. The heat of the sticky substance combined with their helpless noises does me in. I muffle my shout against Oz’s neck with a vicious hickey, sucking their skin into my mouth as I explode and paint Oz’s lap with my cum.

Oz’s head loll’s to the side as they catch their breath and something pops out behind their neck. A set of small white eyes appear on the small lump of darkness. Nostalgia slams into me like a freight train as I realize what it is. 

“Hey! That’s one of your little phobia fuckers! I haven’t seen those since high school,” I point out.

“Oh, well, I sort of hid them away because I was afraid they would come off as unprofessional. They’d always do something in the background, or interrupt me when I was focusing on something. But my psychologist thinks that keeping all the phobias inside me might be contributing to my anxiety so they’re back,” they explain.

“I always thought they were fun to watch,” I admit, rubbing it’s small head with my thumb.

“As much as I like being under you Boss we should probably get cleaned up before any of the hundreds of people who work at this design firm knocks on your door,” Oz says.

Grumbling, I peel myself off of them and watch them disappear into my private bathroom. I ignore the urge to join them as their last comment sinks in, and I check the pocket of my sweat soaked pants to see that I have a few hundred messages, which is honestly pretty low for a day where I’m supposed to be off the clock. Even though I know they’re all dull as shit — the best part about my job is the actual interior design and crafting, not phone calls and paperwork — I gradually begin to go through them all. 

I don’t notice that it’s starting to get dark outside until Oz taps my shoulders, smelling like soap and wearing their dress again. Because of the elastic fabric it hasn’t wrinkled from being on the floor, and it doesn’t have any stains from our mess. No one will know that I started to fuck them in it, and I feel a thrill as if we’re getting away with something.

“I admire your responsibility during your down time, but I think you’ve spent enough time with you dick out,” they tease.

“When did you get out?” I ask.

“About an hour and a half ago. I thought you would notice and take a break while I returned some calls, but here you still are,” they say.

I pull myself to my feet. Stretching, I look at the state of my clothes and realize I definitely can’t just straighten them out and wear them outside like Oz.

“I’ll drop by your house for something else to wear,” Oz offers.

“That’d be great.” I grin, lean down, and place a kiss on their forehead. If our first fight ended in banging then I’d say we’re doing pretty fucking well.

I scroll through my phone as I peel off my pants, trying to see if anyone outside the office texted me before I take a shower. As I walk into the bathroom I see a couple from Virgil.

Draculoser (5) 

  * It turns out I have to take care of something with the family estate, so we might have to move coming up with a reply to tomorrow. Old associate tried to do a hostile takeover of some import and export assets.

  * The loophole they thought existed in some old contracts fell apart. Should’ve gotten an actual lawyer to check it instead of doing a five second Google search.

  * Now he’s trying to play it off as a joke.

  * It’s not really a big deal but I have to be on the business call to decide on his replacement.

  * Going to be a couple of hours.

1:01 PM

I’m halfway through typing a reply when three little dots appear under his messages before a new one appears.

  * Finished. Time to talk or are you heading in for the day?

      * It’s four fucking PM. Of course I’m not heading in for the night. What am I, a geriatric?

  * Did Oz teach you that word?

      * I’ll fucking kill you. I’ve still got time, we can all pick up dinner somewhere and brainstorm for a few hours.

  * Sounds good. I’ll start thinking of places. Call me back in an hour.

      * If you somehow think of the same restaurants as me I’m going to rip my tail off. I already hate that our industries overlap. I can’t have too much in common with a guy whose texts are the size of a book.

  * I’m sure Oz can reteach you your vowels if you’re struggling through them.

  * Anyway, I’ll just be placing this recording I received of a Harugari meeting after my telecall in my collection.

      * ????? Am I supposed to know what the fuck that means?

  * They’re a 150 year old secret society that still operates to this day. A client who was happy with one of our commissions sent it as a personal thank you.

      * Are you trying to rub more cool shit in my face???

  * Duarte’s gifts usually stay in the realm of secret passages, so it was a nice change of pace. Not that I hate receiving ancient maps.

      * WHEN I GET OUT OF THE SHOWER I’M GOING TO BOUNCE YOUR SKULL AGAINST THE FUCKING PAVEMENT DE LIONCOURT.

  * See you in a few. 

      * EAT A BOWL FULL OF ASS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO CHAPTERS IN ONE WEEK BA-BY.
> 
> Random Question: Ranking all the characters, who would you say is the most intelligent and who comes in last?
> 
> PS: I love writing the friendship dynamic between Virgil and Damien and the relationship dynamic between Oz and Damien.


	17. Raise The Oof - Virgil de Lioncourt

Since putting two and two together after Damien told Elise how his old friends died, I feel like I can see the entire chessboard for the first time. I spent a long time mulling over if I was okay with using Elise out of a mix of shame and uncertainty, so much so that the inevitable arrived far faster than I expected; most would say my decision was ultimately pointless. But just like how I started to really understand what was going on with Liam after Damien’s explanation, Elise’s response revealed a lot about her. 

The former, my brother, got close with a cluster of peers. Without knowing how successful he was at finding friends after being ejected from the family estate, it’s possible they could have been his earliest support group outside our late parents’ sphere of influence. That would be enough to make them important to him. But on top of the significance of the timing, they’d been ripped away from him, along with Damien and Oz, _very_ unexpectedly, with little time for the people around them to brace themselves.

Liam and I have outlived people before. It’s impossible not to. But thinking back to when we lived together, the only kinds of deaths I can recall witnessing are from wars and old age. Never illness. Our parents, shooting for caretakers of the century, retreated and left us to deal with death on our own. In the end, we were left with losses we knew might be coming and each other. Liam lacked the former, and it couldn’t have been easy to find the latter in his two friends that remained when they were so intimately tied to the group he just lost.

I think of the picture of Liam in the cafe, his face looking gaunt, body thin, and a pair of heavy bags under his eyes. 

_ How long did it take you to get to that point Liam? Was it from the very start, or were you wasting away while I fucked around in front of cameras? _

He embraced Elise as a friend, seemingly uncomplicated and engaging, from the start. The time I’ve spent with her has shown she’s everything but, but I’m sure the same traits that ended up endearing her to us kept Liam from cutting her off. The way Elise reacted to our betrayal shows she places a great amount of value on friendship, as well as loyalty, which we promptly managed to ruin in less than an hour. Clearly Liam hadn’t managed to do something as equally stupid when she returned to Salt early. Both of them answering our request as one showed this mix of a fresh start and trustworthy companionship created a sound foundation. Whatever amends we came up with, they weren’t going to be for each of them individually; they were going to be for them as a united front. So creating an environment where they felt secure as a united front seemed to be our best bet to making them comfortable before presenting our case.

After presenting my thoughts, Oz immediately brought up the simultaneous public and private environment of a house party. Public in the sense that there are large swaths of people, private in how you can disappear into a room to be by yourself when you want — or to fraternize with a smaller group of people; larger parties always spawn tinier ones, with groups of friends finding something to do in the throng of activities and sticking together.

_ Or maybe that’s just house parties that have more than fifteen rooms.  _ I think.

Hopefully Liam and Elise wouldn’t feel like they were cornered since there would be other people besides us there, the public advantage, and they could still have privacy. It felt like the first thing Oz, Damien, and I have truly worked on together. I knew Oz was Damien’s assistant from the beginning, but watching them organize and schedule in real time still came as a shock, purely because the speed they did it felt like witnessing a tornado. Always doing three things at once, Oz’s energy was only matched by the speed at which Damien managed to call people. Managing an invitation list seemed like the last thing he’d want to do, much less have the skillset for, but as soon as he started yelling I realized Damien inviting people sounds less like a CEO gathering guests and more like a DJ making everyone he comes across feel like they were missing out if they didn’t follow his every request.

Being assigned Liam-Elise-phone duty initially felt like busy work. The two already agreed to come by the time we were deep into planning. On top of that, Damien and Oz listed something around the lines of “being the most considerate” as their reasoning for putting me in charge of it, which felt funny knowing the situation we’re in. Being considerate is usually the sort of thing that keeps people from the situation we’re in.

But in the days following their hesitant agreement, trickles of messages questioning whether it was a set up, what the party was going to be like, what they were comfortable with, etc turned into a flood. Despite how serious everything is, I can’t help but feel proud that they were still onboard the day of.

Or maybe it’s relief.

In the end there are four, firmly outlined rules established over the phone:

  * Elise and Liam can leave whenever they want.
  * The party backdrop is meant to provide relief if someone needs to drop out, not as a tool to pressure anyone
  * Everyone gets to plead their case once without interruption. There’s no limit on how much anyone can talk, but everyone gets at least one chance to say their piece without anyone interrupting.
  * Elise and Liam are not required to forgive anyone.

I know feelings aren’t simple enough to be completely accounted for on paper, but it’s more than a little comforting to know that since we  _ tried _ to establish boundaries Liam and Elise will at the very least show up.

Well they’re supposed to show up.

_ Where are they? _ I wonder.

Standing on one of Damien’s many indoor balconies, I gaze down at the crowd partying in his insane living room. No stranger to ostentatious houses, it’s not so much the modern sculptures and art pieces that look like abstract torture advices or mindfucks — with Damien that’s a given — but the sheer amount of entertainment devices he has. There’s a Wii hooked up to his giant flatscreen where eight people are playing Super Smash Bros with the option to change to XBox or PlayStation games the second they get bored with it; both consoles are also plugged into the TV, which must have  _ at least _ twelve port holes. On the opposite wall there’s an even larger TV surrounded by bean bags where people are streaming Netflix. Tables are interspersed where people are playing everything from alcoholic board games to RPG card games led by phone audio, and there are small crowds writhing to music no one can hear. All of their ears have wireless earbuds, so it can be assumed that they’ve all connected to one of the alien looking stereo systems in one of the room’s four corners. There are people head banging in perfect sync next to twerkers who are going at a much faster pace while keeping time with each other. It looks more like the opening showcase of a company than a party.

It’s also somewhat controlled enough that it definitely feels more like a party-party than a chaotic rave. From where I am it would be easy to pick out Elise’s fluffy hair or my brother’s uninterested gaze after a couple of minutes. I’ve been up here for half an hour and they’re definitely not here.

A hand slaps against my back. I whip my head around before sagging against the balcony. It’s just Damien.

“Stop brooding. A watched pot never boils and all that shit,” he orders.

“I’m not brooding,” I growl.

“Unholy shit, when did you upgrade to four emotions?” He taunts.

I look at him in disbelief. “Did you somehow magically stop giving a shit about all of this after weeks of planning? Months if you count all the time before everything went to shit?”

Damien casually flips me off, taking a sip from the cup in his hand. “Would I let a bunch of chodes in my badass living room if that was the case?”

The smell of his drink drifts over to me. “Vodka? My bad, you just got drunk off your ass on this incredibly important night we poured our blood and sweat into.”

His tail whips at my ankles. “This is my first one dickshit, calm down. I’m not even tipsy and I don’t plan to be. I mean exactly what I said. You’re just going to work yourself up staring at the door.”

“Since when did you start calmly dispensing advice about just letting things happen?” I ask.

“Since I tried being a control freak and manipulated a friend that helped me get with Oz, lost her, and managed to fuck up my relationship with the guy I was trying to reconnect with in the first place even more than it already was,” he says.

I falter. “I, Damien, I—”

“Shut up. If you tell me you’re sorry for being cranky I’m going to kick you in the nuts. Seeing you be pissy for once makes you slightly less infuriating. Besides,” he continues. “Liam’s your brother, and you haven’t seen him in what? Decades? Cut yourself some slack.”

“You’re being suspiciously sympathetic,” I say.

“After helping Oz get ready for the party I really can’t judge someone for being anxious. On top of that Oz could barely get me to narrow down the stockpile of gift baskets I planned on giving to Liam to three. I’m really not in the best fucking position to judge,” he admits.

“Huh?” I furrow my brow.  _ Since when did Damien make gift baskets? _

Damien doesn’t answer, his gaze freezing on something out of sight below. Oz isn’t next to him right now, so I assume they’re wearing something low cut and Damien’s brain shut off when his eyes landed on them. I try to follow his line of sight, looking for flashes of yellow, which seem to be their favorite color, and find purple instead. My heart stops.

Someone brushed Liam’s dark hair to the point of catching the light, a perfectly straight curtain covering half of his face. Through the lens of his glasses, I can see the bags under his eyes and the gauntness of his face is far less prominent than in the photo that brought me to Salt. The former look like he’s not necessarily tired all the time; he just woke up early so he could have them and seem like a suffering artist to the casual observer. I glance at his torso, hoping that I don’t see ribs, which is a bit dramatic but I also let Instagram and a couple of glasses of cognac to convince me to book a flight without luggage so it’s not off brand. A lithe, faint ab line greets me instead, made visible by the turtleneck clinging to his body and it’s boob window.

I didn’t even realize how tense I was until my body relaxes. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

_ He’s not just eating, he's getting a surplus of protein.  _ I smile softly.

“ **Liam** !” I boom, maneuvering over the balcony.

The partygoers below either freeze and stare at me as I float down, or give a start and glance on instinct before turning back to what they’re doing. I try not to look embarrassed as I’m struck with the urge to grimace. I haven’t really injected myself into the party as “Virgil from Expedition: Underworld”, and without officially “being in persona” there’s always a chance my impromptu announcement could be filed away as ‘Virgil de Lioncourt, Heir Screaming In Public’.

_ It’s a party. Everyone is screaming, Your brother is here, pay attention.  _ I tell myself.

Like so many of the strangers around me Liam freezes, but instead of looking startled my brother’s expression borders on the side of paranoia. His eyes widen as his mouth presses into a thin line. 

The bizarre thing about being immortal is the way you miss people. Once you pass your first seventy years on Earth still looking young while your old friends start decomposing in their new casket, time starts to blur together. Unless you’re working on something with a time limit like a project, your mindfulness of the present stops being innate and a year can barely feel different than a decade. Yearning for someone’s presence it works more like a benchmark system than a feeling that increases little by little. Waiting a decade for someone can feel more like a weekend, and the same goes for two decades and four. But then a century passes and suddenly their lack of presence hits you like a gut punch, because if it’s so easy for you to brush aside the span of a decade, if they’ve been gone for  _ ten  _ of them there’s a chance that they’ve done the same thing to such a large degree that they might’ve just forgotten about you. 

Or they just don’t care anymore. 

So when Liam, despite looking like a deer in the deadlights, doesn’t step back or dart away when I land in front of him, I can’t help the strange half-laugh half-sigh that escapes me. I don’t know the person he is right now but at least he’s interested in talking. 

Without even thinking about it, I begin to reach for him so I can pull him into a hug. He flinches. I stop and shove my hands in my pockets. We stare at each other, basking in the awkward aftermath. I struggle to fill the silence. I’m sure I had all sorts of things I wanted to ask him about but I’m drawing a blank. It’s Liam who eventually breaks the lull.

“Thank you for restraining yourself,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” I spit out. 

The stiffness of Liam’s face loosens into a scowl. Funnily enough, it relaxes me more than it makes me anxious. It’s the exact same expression he was wearing in the Instagram photo. 

“Sorry, I’m not trying to come off as arrogant or anything. It’s just that I’ve been thinking of seeing you in person for so long.” I clear my throat. “You look healthy.”

“Why are you here?” He asks right out the gate. “How’d you even find me?”

“I miss you. And I saw a photo of you on Instagram,” I answer. “A fan tweeted it at me. I mean @ed me ―”

“Ah, yes, you’ve gone mainstream. You always enjoyed an audience so honestly I wasn’t surprised when Elise told me. I never would have thought that you would use it to track me down though,” he jabs.

“I didn’t. Someone thought we looked alike so they took a picture. I swear,” I promise.

“Even if you’re telling the truth, I’m still holding it over your head that you’ve made me into a celebrity look alike,” he says.

“What would I lie to you about that? You’re already put off by me being famous, it’s not like tricking you into thinking I didn’t track you down would make you happier to see me,” I point out.

“The same reason you would lie to Elise for weeks I suppose.” Liam looks at his nails.

“I’ll freely admit that was extremely shitty. I couldn’t decide on how to approach you, so when the idea of seeing you again through using someone else was presented to me, I took it. I flopped back and forth on taking it back, but by the time I grew a spine and started convincing everyone else to stop it was too late. I plan on apologizing to her tonight . . . is she with you?”

I look behind my older brother through the front door, hoping to spot Elise lingering by one of the severe rock sculptures in Damien’s front yard. I don’t spot her silhouette anywhere. Liam sighs, drawing my attention back to his face.

His scowl softens, and frustration replaces some of the anger in his eyes. 

“I don’t know what to do with you right now Virgil. It’s not as if I don’t care about what you did to Elise, but I’m honestly not nearly as mad at you as I am with Oz and Damien. I’ve been trying to figure out why you were here, and hearing you say it’s because you missed me,” Liam pauses.

_ Is he giving me a break because I did it to reconnect?  _ I feel a little hopeful before common sense kicks in.  _ But wouldn’t that mean he would also be more forgiving towards Damien and Oz? Why does it only apply to me? _

“It reminds me of when we were growing up, and you would do whatever our parents said because, I don’t know, it would shape you into a better person? Maybe you thought they would stop gnashing their teeth if you could somehow satisfy them? You clearly thought it would get you something. More than a century later you decide you miss me, someone else comes along and says they can get you what you want if you just fell into line, and you did without a second thought! It’s been more than a century since I last saw you and you’re still doing the exact same thing? I feel like the reason I’m not as mad at you as I should be is because I can only feel a limited amount of annoyance at a time, and you’re already taking up too much of it with your personality,” he groans.

_ Oh.  _ The same hot ball of shame that wedged itself in my throat and crawled into my mouth when I let Damien talk me into this whole mess is back again. I cup my Adam’s apple, trying to come up with something to say. I can just tell that Liam’s lived another life ever since he’s gone. The air around him just feels different, like running into someone who used to be shy and disheveled who's now a loud CEO that only wears designer suits. I want to keep talking to him, hear all the stories I missed, but in order to do that I have to make it up to him. But what do you even say to start doing that after someone basically tells you the thing you need to fix is your personality? I can’t think of anything.

“Big oof.”

I jump so hard I accidentally start floating again. Elise smirks from her place at my side, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Her lips are painted a dark brown and a trendy looking pale pink suit hangs off her frame.

Before I can ask her how the Hell she snuck up on me, she wiggles her hands dramatically in the air.

“Magic,” she drones.

If Elise’s head wasn’t turning in a new direction every ten seconds, I would assume that she didn’t even care she’s here. Her face is flat. She looks at me expectantly, but it’s with a calm energy. If I didn’t know better, I might guess she just wanted a pencil.

But I do know better. “Elise, I’m so sorry we dumped all our bullshit on you. In the same moment we admitted what we were doing, we also unloaded all this information about why we thought it was okay to lie to you in the first place. I can’t imagine what it felt like to learn that people you considered friends were lying to you, and possibly being made to feel responsible for them at the same time.”

I pause for a moment to take a breath, but Elise renders the rest of my apology pointless.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay?” I repeat dumbly.

She shrugs. “Okay.”

It feels like there have been way too many uncomfortable silences tonight, even though I’m pretty sure this is just the second. Her expression loosens just a bit so she can smirk and stiffly put her hands on her hips.

“I mean you can say sorry all you want, it doesn’t really mean anything,” she says.

“Do you want me to do something?” I ask.

“No Virgil,” she drawls sarcastically. “That was my way of saying I accept. Forgiveness is earned, not just said. It’s nice that you said sorry, but I’ll say okay and mean it when you show me you mean it. I’m going to invoke rule two honey. Emotional labor is exhausting.”

She stretches and yawns, genuinely looking tired. She scans the room until her eyes land on a table full of drinks.

“I’m going to see if this EA knockoff has any Red Bull. See you when Liam tries not to hiss at Damien?” 

After weeks of worrying about how to show Elise I wanted to make it up for her, and imagining the plethora of ― well deserved ― negative reactions I could be at the other end of, watching Elise almost casually walk away makes me feels anticlimatic. She’d obviously been angry and anxious, but not in a way that was even slightly as intense as I imagined it to be. While the pressure to fufill her challenge is definitely there, far more present in my mind is the memory of Elise taking up the same tone on the train, a far cry from the open and bubbly way she spoke to me in the hospital. Her sarcastic prickliness is just like when we were going back and forth intellectually. 

_ It’s going to be a while before we ever talk like that again, if at all.  _ I think. I can’t help calling after her, actually hoping she might make one more crack for the road.

“Why EA?” I shout.

_ “Because they’re shitty!” _ She calls back.

My empathy for Damien fights with the bittersweetness of hearing her banter.  _ Damien’s going to get roasted when he goes to talk to her.  _

I turn back to Liam but he’s gone. Eventually I notice him hovering behind some of the people watching Netflix. He turns his head to look at me and mouths “we’re done tonight”. 

“Huh,” I say aloud.

The crockpot of emotions swirling around in my gut makes me stumble over to a chair and zone out. Elise’s open endedness on her forgiveness and my brother's emphasis on “tonight” means I basically got what I set out to accomplish, a chance, but I feel so wrecked it’s hard to celebrate. I don’t realize how much I’ve disconnected until Oz comes over to me and starts talking. Listening to them is like coming up from the bottom of a pool. I can faintly make out their message; Liam doesn’t trust them at all but doesn’t seem as angry as he is with Damien because they’re his employee and “probably felt influenced”. Elise is far more iffy but seems willing to go along with giving them a second chance if Liam is. But their voice fades in and out, and if they asked me to recount the exact words they used they wouldn’t be able too.

It takes Damien shuffling by Oz’s side and sucker punching me in the shoulder to bring me back fully. Hissing, I press my hand to my body.

“That actually made me feel a little less like a fucking piece of shit,” Damien sighs.

“What do you want Damien?” I demand.

“They’re ready to talk again,” he explains.

“How’d your conversation go?” I ask.

Damien winces like he’s physically in pain. “You two are getting off lighter than me.”

I go stiff. “They’re not giving you a second chance?”

“ . . . I don’t know. I kind of just got ripped apart.”

I look to Oz, trying to get some insight, but they only gaze despondently at Damien. The demon keeps his back straight and his face dry of tears, but an atmosphere of “I’m five comments away from falling to pieces considering he seems to be holding three baskets full of knives in one arm I’m not going to push it.

We drift over to the corner of the room where people are still dancing. My brother is holding his earbuds in his hands while Elise keeps one in her ear, splitting her attention between whatever is playing and their debate.

“Panic! At The Disco might be making what is definitely straight people music but that doesn’t mean that all their albums before Pray For The Wicked are suddenly bad. Besides we’ll always have ``I Don’t Know How But They Found Me”,” Elise monotones.

“It’s not that I think all the old albums are suddenly bad. It’s more so why not take this as a signal and opportunity to try something completely new. Throw all traces of the mainstream away and risk months of shifty through shitty bands in hopes of finding a new one,” my brother argues back. He pauses and quickly adds, “What’s I Don’t Know How But They Found Me?”

Elise’s flat voice breaks. “ _ Dude are you fucking serious? _ ”

Damien clears his throat and the two stop. Else goes stiff again as she shifts her focus over to us. Liam fixates on Damien, his expression setting into a deep scowl.

“Ah yes, another talk,” Liam recalls like he’s remembering a promise to saw his own leg off. “Let’s go into a side room.”

“But rule two?” Oz brings up.

“We can still do that. The party will only be a couple of feet away,” Liam says. “Come along.”

We settle in a small guest room in a nearby hallway. Elise rolls into the bed to lounge on her side and Liam situates a pillow as if he’s going to sit on it before purposefully hovering a foot above the actual cushion. 

“Before we start up again,” Damien awkwardly clears his throat. “I wanted to give you something Liam. It’s not a shitty bribe or anything, I’ve been working on for awhile. It’s part of therapy or what-fucking-ever.”

Damien puts the baskets into Liam’s arms. He looks down and pinches what is clearly seran wrap instead of basket wrapping.

“The supposed therapy you told me about,” Liam says. “Hm, lets see there’s: a few dozen novelty knives . . . surprisingly tasteful looking music and art nouveau figurines, and matches, a LaVey classic.”

Elise rubs her eyes, “I’ll give you this Red Hots. Those blades look pretty cool.”

Liam’s facial expression doesn’t change, but his tone softens just a bit. “Thanks Damien, this is actually kind of nice.”

Liam unbuckles his belt and slides the baskets onto it before redoing the buckle. 

“Fashion,” he clarifies.

I make note of Liam’s partial approval and what he said earlier about bands.  _ He likes eccentric things now.  _ I remember Liam liked trying new things, especially if they were odd, but not so boldly.

“Norah also has me doing rock sculpture stuff because, uh, I like brutalism. I’ve got a bunch of little ones on my desk back at work, but the ones made with cranes outside the house are the ones most people see. I can show you the work ones if you want sometime, since we have an art thing in common now. If you would be interested that is,” Damien says.

The end of Damien’s sentence sounds more like a question than a statement. His attempt to gauge where they stand is pretty easy to see.

Liam sees right through him. “Still thinking about it.”

“So what do you want to talk about now pumpkin?” Elise addresses all of us in monotone.

“Well,” Oz jumps in. “What have you been up to?”

Elise raises her eyebrows. “You want to make small talk?”

“I missed you,” Oz admits quietly.

Elise looks a little taken aback, but quickly recovers her cool demeanor. “Well the thrift store is going really well, like twice as well as my itty-bitty-little-business-student-dreams. I’m at a point online where I can pretty much objectively call myself an ‘influencer’, but if anyone starts actually addressing me as that outloud like I’m the same as people who like screaming at newscasters and diving off construction equipment I’m going to kill myself.”

“What about your other projects?” They inquire. “Archey? Sewing?”

Elise huffs, “You know I like being busy but everything else has kept me a little too busy if I’m being honest. I haven’t done either of those in a while. My aim is totally shot.”

Oz smiles. “Was that on purpose?”

It takes a second for Elise to get it. “Oh shit, no. Ha, happy accident.”

“Yeah,” Oz says.

As the third uncomfortable silence stretches between all of us I lose a little bit of my mind. Damien and Oz seem to have forgotten what they wanted to talk about in the combined atmosphere of the former’s undecided status and Oz’s wistfulness; I’m cycling through both of the same emotions from having my standing with Elise clear while Liam didn’t even bring up if he’s giving me a chance or not, and the result of all that drama  _ is us standing in a room staring at each other? _

“Okay, this is ridiculous, what’s your answer?” I demand.

Liam crosses his arms. “Rule four ―”

“I’m not saying you have to forgive us. I’m saying you have to clarify if you don’t. Forgive us, don’t forgive us, fine, but don’t dangle whatever your choice is in front of us. It’s cruel,” I argue.

“Cruel? You think you can tell us what’s cruel?” Elise challenges.

“Just because someone else did something terrible doesn’t mean you suddenly earned the right to do the same thing. This isn’t the thirties where if a kid talks back to you it’s totally fine for their parents to brain them upside the head,” I bite back.

Elise flinches like someone’s slapped her, suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable for someone whose lounging on a bed. She makes some sort of grunting sound as she awkwardly tries to resituate herself, her placid attitude disappearing entirely.

“That’s extreme.” Liam floats closer to me challengingly.

I glare at him. “You know what I mean.”

“Not really Virgil. Are you saying that along with your ability to turn into a sheep at a moment’s notice the rest of your personality really hasn’t changed?” Liam tests me.

“If you really want to find out you should give me a chance,” I press.

Liam scoffs, “Just breaking the ice with you would take a week and a half.”

“Christmas then,” I pose.

Liam reels back. “Excuse me?”

“At the estate back in Europe. Based on your estimation we should have plenty of time to really get talking,” I say.

“You’re really going to try and convince me you’ve changed by trying to drag me back to the gaudy mansion you’ve been living in hundreds of years?” He mocks.

“By that logic you’re just as bad because you’ve been consistently living outside the mansion for hundreds of years,” I assert.

Liam fumbles for words. “Well, I . . .”

“Am going to make a generic hipster comeback and deflect?” I taunt.

It’s a crapshoot. I’ve heard a grand total of two interactions where Liam clearly voiced going against the grain, but Damien seems to think it’s a prominent enough trait to base a whole gift on.

Liam turns a violent shade of purple. He clutches at the collar of his shirt like he’s forgotten he didn’t wear pearls today, hand trembling. 

_ Good gods is he really that offended? _ I think.

“Fine!” He shouts, settling on the ground. “Fine I’ll go with you on you little Spanish summer! I love going to places that are so hot they could instantly kill me even in the winter! Feliz Navidad!”

As Liam stomps out of the room, clearly done for the night, Damien and Oz fixate on me. I realize I’m hyperventilating, and my hands have balled up to fists and my sides. I feel a bit of the same anxiety from when I yelled at my brother over the party.

_ They’re not going to judge you. Oz and Damien are your friends. _ I remind myself. 

The bed creaks as Elise moves to go after him. She pauses in the frame of the door, tossing me a glance voer her shoulder. 

“Bye De Lioncourt,” she mutters.

“De Lioncourt? What happened to Virgil?” I ask.

“We’ll be on a first name basis when I can trust you again,” Elise answers.

She disappears are the corner with a finality that makes it pretty clear that they’re both done for the night. Even though I feel hopeful knowing I’ll at least get to see my brother one more time, the uncertainty that the future holds and how Damien seems to be shrinking in place keeps me from feeling overly victorious. He sums up the atmosphere in the room pretty well: 

“Well I guess that technically could’ve gone way fucking worse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? I didn’t update the last two weeks? I don’t know what you’re talking about! I think you guys know by now that if an update is late I’ve lost control and it’s more than 3,000+ words haha. If you think Liam and Elise are being too harsh remember from their side that our main trio basically falsified versions of their identity and maintained a relationship through those identities for a good chunk of the year. They also brought one of them across country while under those identities, and all for the ultimate goal of trying to weasel an encounter out of Liam. 
> 
> P.S. Not trying to be presumptuous or arrogant but if anyone wanted to draw fan art of anything in this fic I would not mind. This project is turning out to be so much longer than I expected. Can you believe when I originally came up with this I thought it was going to be like, 20,000 words at the most? To be young and stupid.


	18. When You Were Gone - Liam de Lioncourt

“I hate how beautiful it is.”

My voice echoes up against the walls until it dissolves through the open skylight. The entryway into the manor is the only part that perfectly matches the outside. Other rooms in the past showed traces of being styled like a church: ornate decorative molding, windows shaped like lace, grand columns, and motifs painted like kaleidoscopes on rounded ceilings. But the entryway is a lesson plan on baroque, a crowded cascade of gold carvings featuring shields, crowns, florals, and fighting figures that are clearly vampires the family has successfully passed off as demons to mortals for the past ten centuries. When I lived here I had been able to sneer at it, because it copied every other family trying to invoke the presence of God in their homes.

But that was so long ago, and now that minimalism is so popular it’s all objectively alternative. Combined with the detailed craftsmanship, by all of my personal definitions it’s a feast for the eyes.

My brother looks at one of the vampires tearing another’s throat out. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder I suppose.”

“Why would you consider this your home base if you don’t have the taste for it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Growing up here wasn’t all bad.”

“The winners get to rewrite history I suppose,” I mock.

Virgil's voice doesn’t hold a trace of anger when he says, “Are you going to be like this the whole time?”

I falter; the confusing mix of frustration at seeing him again, acting just the same as he did centuries ago, and my anger at where it’s led him collides with the stony look on his face. His expression isn’t stiff from a lack of feeling, but rather an unspoken acceptance towards whatever I say to him.

“What happened to your anger at the party? When you demanded answers from me?” I ask.

“What does that have to do with now?” He questions.

“Saying growing up here wasn’t so bad, immediately tagging along with Damien, none of that surprises me, but getting angry,” I fumble. “It was something else.”

“I was getting frustrated with the tension between everyone so I snapped,” he explains.

“Why does it take you getting pushed to treat people differently? Why not the passage of time?” I grill. 

“I know you think that I haven’t changed, but just because I’m sort of the same in two ways doesn’t mean that I literally stayed exactly the same,” he defends himself.

“Like how?” I challenge him.

He thinks for a second. “The traveling thing I do on the show is definitely something our parents wouldn’t approve of. I know you think entertaining an audience on camera is the same as trying to do anything to make our parents happy, but I just like documenting what I see and telling stories. They wouldn’t agree with ‘trying to please peasants’.”

“You still let me talk to you like they did,” I point out.

“Because you’re my big brother,” he answers plainly.

The simple sincerity in his voice takes the fire out of me. I think of him smaller, stiff lipped as father or mother loom over him and evaluate his worth based on the day’s performance. Suddenly it feels a few metric tons decided to sit on my chest.

“Virgil you . . . Nevermind.”

He follows my lead as I close my umbrella and drop it by the door. I wrap my hands around my bags again and walk through the archway in front of me into the next room.

To my surprise, I’m not met with the grandiose atmosphere of the family kitchen. The old ceiling that was so high you had to crane your head all the way back to see the top is gone, replaced with a wooden one much closer to the ground. The room itself is smaller as well. It’s still large for a normal house, but compared to before it’s a hut now. There’s a cottage-esque looking island with a marble top capable of seating four that matches the distressed cabinets on opposite walls, a vent where copper pots hang, a cast iron chandelier and two gas stoves.

“I distinctly remember a quadfold mural depicting women who looked suspiciously like mother dancing around a flowering crystal chandelier bigger than my body,” I remark.

“I prefer oak,” Virgil says.

“And the size?” I ask.

“I got some walls installed. I hate open concept and it took five minutes to walk to that weird super fridge. The extra space got turned into a dining rooms for business and a game room for parties,” he explains.

“I’m surprised you touched her sacred space,” I muse.

“The cooks did more work in here than she ever did,” he says.

I search Virgil’s face for the toothy smile that always appeared whenever he defied our parents in his pubescence. But his face is still like granite, emoting only with intense eyes that focus on me and wait for my next word.

_ If he has stopped hanging onto our parents’ philosophies that doesn’t mean he’s going to revert back to the when he was calling them stupid. Don’t be ridiculous. _

Despite my best efforts to rationalize, I still feel a pang of nostalgia. 

“Would you like to sit down in the business dining room? I can get you some blood from the fridge and you can poke around. I remembered you like unique things so I made sure all the statement pieces were in good condition,” he offers.

_ Statement pieces? _ I wonder. “Why not?”

He points to the end of the room where two wooden doors stand opposite of each other. “It’s the one on the right.”

I begin to move towards it but Virgil stops me with his hand, gesturing to my luggage.

“I’ll take your bags up,” he hums.

He takes them from me before disappearing through the brick archway into the rest of the house. Sighing, I walk towards the right door. The center of the room possesses a simple wooden table, albeit long, and an iron bookcase filled with books, journals, file boxes and a couple monotone paperweights.

Everything else is an explosion of color.

Jewelry with hidden blades, a key with a hidden barrel, antique brass microscopes, an ancient looking maritime compass, one bizarrely tiny crossbow with an equally tiny sewing machine to match, archaic 3D models of the universe, old weapons and recipes displayed in floating cases covers the wall in front of me. There are so many trinkets I can’t decide what to approach first.

I close my eyes and stick out my hand, letting fate decide my focus. When I open my eyes, I see my pointer finger has landed in the direction of a navy blue bottle.

I gently lift the lid off of it’s shelf and place it on the ground and pick up the smell of fresh glass cleaner.

_ He really did get everything ready for me. _I think. 

I pick up the bottle in my hands and run my fingers over its surface. The bottom is slim, becoming circular as it reaches the top. A petite silver chain hangs around its neck; a pendant of a bird dangling off of it. The stopper sticks out of the neck like a seed and matches the rest of the navy blue container.

Curious, I gently twist the top off. Immediately a strong earthy and sugary smell fills the room. There are several dull thuds. I look over at the circular baroque window and see a few dozen birds have smashed themselves into the pane.

“That’s a magic lure.” Virgil clarifies as he enters the room and walks up to me. In place of my luggage he holds a wooden tray covered in cubes of bloody steak, plasma packets, and a tall glass of wine.

“It’s hardly evening,” I say.

“It’ll be five pm in an hour. Besides, it’s just one glass,” he says.

I take the bottle and put it back on the shelf before taking the glass, puncturing a packet with a fang before using it to dilute the rich red. Swirling it around, I tilt it towards my lips, feeling a familiar sense of dryness in the tips of my fangs as my body senses blood before the concoction reaches them. The tenseness in my body fades, and I have to admit it’s nice to have blood at the ready instead of having to think of hunting later. 

“What could you possibly need a lure to summon idiotic birds for?” I ask.

“The birds aren’t dumb, the mixture just acts like catnip. Would you believe it if I told you I have it because I thought it would be funny?” He proposes.

“No. It doesn’t seem like your type of humor,” I analyze.

“You’re right. I was just hoping I could get you to laugh,” he admits. “I got it to help with food while abroad. You never know how hard it might be to get blood when you’re on a hundred mile hike in uncharted territory.”

“What’s up with the rest of this then? I understand having the bottle in sight so you don’t forget you have it, but why the business dining room? Why is any of this stuff in this room?” I ask.

“You know how older businessmen are. A good chunk of them got started with a ‘small loan of a million dollars’, and work themselves up when trying to come up with stories about their “struggles” and the qualities that make them a great CEO. All this stuff puts them in a good mood; it gives them a bunch of props to use when they’re telling their very real experiences they’re not making up as they go,” Virgil explains.

“You’re not much different in the money department,” I point out.

“Not claiming I am. But you’ve got to give me props in the game department. Hundreds of people have been in the game room and tried to show off their “mastery of strategy” or “the mind that makes them such an efficient boss” and I’ve bested most of them,” he claims.

I wish I could say my jaw doesn’t drop like someone who found out their favorite celebrity likes the same extremely popular new trend they like — what a surprise — but it does.

“You’ve taken up games again?” I nearly shout.

“I never stopped. You just stopped playing with me,” Virgil says.

“You became a different player once you turned ten. You didn’t play for pleasure and win through skill cultivated by passion. You played to win, jot it down as an achievement, and move on, like it was a chore you only cared about because it could potentially sound good in a college essay,” I respond.

“Then I suppose I have a lot of games to make up for with you. If you’re in the mood of course. I have brain teaser puzzles,” he tempts.

“My phase with brain teaser puzzles has long been over in order to avoid still liking it when it becomes mainstream, but for nostalgia’s sake I’ll bite; nostalgia is out of fashion,” I bite.

“I was hoping you’d say that. I got the room ready in case you agreed to play with me. You can choose the challenge, how long we’ll play,” he dotes.

Virgil picks the lid off the ground and carefully puts it back on the shelf over the blue bottle. Following him out of the dining room, we walk through the left door I passed earlier and into the game room.

It’s much less extravagant than the dining room. Stone tile in varying shades of gray cover the wall, reddish Tuscan rugs are laid across the circular cobblestone floor, and neatly labeled games sit on bookcase shelves.

He sets down the tray of steak and plasma on a side table before sinking into an armchair.

“Take your time,” Virgil rumbles. He looks at me, rapt.

I look at the boxes around me, brushing my hand against the decorative carvings on the shelves. It has a glossy finish, and every new section seems to have a new design. Forcing yourself to struggle between options when you’re overwhelmed with choice is outdated, so I decide to take whatever puzzle is above a carving of a shrimp. Snapping shrimp are startling and cause literal shockwaves, unlike regular shrimp that just get eaten, which makes snapping shrimp alternative. There’s a chance that there are no shrimp carvings, but I simply decide that’s not going to happen. Letting probability take part in events is way too trendy for me. 

I spot a lovely wooden crustacean with magnificently long antennae under a crate full of metal wire puzzles, knots of metal that the player has to find a way to untangle. Grabbing it by the handle I place it on the coffee table in front of Virgil.

I start to sit in the chair across from him.

“Wait,” I pause, sporting a dimmer switch on the wall.

I float over, and turn it until it’s completely dark, then adjust until I can just barely make out my hands in front of my face.

“Ambience,” I clarify. 

As I settle down in my chair again, Virgil doesn’t comment on my inspired doing-puzzles-in-the-dark idea, but it’s hard to be upset when I see him pick a puzzle out of the box. His slitted pupils suddenly look like flickering flames as he settles on a puzzle. It’s nothing close to the zeal I remember but it’s similar enough to make me consider:

_ Maybe he has let himself change. _

The room becomes quiet except for the clinking of metal. It’s a surprisingly comfortable silence. By the time Virgil lets out a loud “AHA!” it’s dark outside. Without outside light I can’t get by with the scant light of the dimmer. Begrudgingly I go to increase it.

“Leaving in defeat Liam?” Virgil teases, “I suppose I’m not surprised. Running must keep you in front of all the trends.”

_ Renovating the manor our parents called flawless, and now enjoying his victory? _ Virgil’s claim seems more and more realistic.

“Where did you learn competitive taunting?” I ask. I turn the dimmer dial.

“Damien and I rip into each other all the time. When I know I’m going to see him I actually look forward to it,” he explains.

Immediately the relaxed atmosphere turns awkward. Virgil makes an odd sound as he tries to backpedal, but I interrupt.

“It’s not as if we agreed not to talk about him or Oz. Don’t freak out.” My voice is stiff. 

Trying to move on before things become worse, I hack together a question on the fly.

“What do you see in them? It’s hard for me to imagine what you three hanging out would look like,” I admit.

“I guess the feeling of being comfortable around them? After knowing them for a while, I felt as if I could stop being a semi-passive observer and talk to them casually,” he says. “They ask for stories about places I’ve been. I pick up the type of coffee I remember they like and surprise them with it. That sort of thing.”

I go over to the tray and start picking up bloodied cubes. I need something to do with my hands.

“That’s nice.” I start stuffing my mouth.

“We should switch topics. The estate still takes commissions from old money, and imports and exports luxury —”

“I’m not really interested in that,” I curtly reply.

I get the urge to call Elise. She can have a real knack for socializing when she’s switched. But she’s spending the holidays with her father. Even if she has free time she’s probably using it for her career. Her memory can be awful too. There’s a good chance she’ll forget to check it fast enough for her response to still be relevant.

“We could try addressing our familial relationship to avoid talking about our shaky foundation of trust?” Virgil cautiously suggests. 

I weigh the option. Even though both topics sound volatile, I can see why Virgil would prefer the latter. I’ve already brought it up indirectly a couple of times. One might compare it to dipping your toes in a pool of water, as opposed to jumping in the deep end all at once. 

“Fine,” I agree. “You start.”

“Well, I know you said you feel like you’re frustrated by my supposed lack of change as a barrier to spending time with me. But we’ve still talked about my personality more than I thought we would,” Virgil says.

“I suppose that’s because,” I pause, trying to be mindful and identify my feelings like Dr. Alaric says. “I feel like I don’t know who you are.”

“From all the ‘you’re exactly the same claims’ you could’ve fooled me,” he remarks.

“I mean I don’t quite understand how you got to this point. I know _ logically _ why you started to change. But you’re so different from the little, almost _ feral _ inquisitor I used to run around with. It’s hard to believe you’re the same person. How can you be the same person? I’m as frustrated as I am confused,” I explain.

“Liam,” he says quietly. “You know why I started hanging around our parents more?” 

“A sudden longing for nagging?” I mock.

“I started because of you Liam,” Virgil reveals.

I choke on some meat. “Excuse me?”

“Our parents always liked to bring up how you’d strayed from proper behavior, but you never wavered. People whispered and prodded you and even though you got annoyed it never seemed like you outright doubted yourself. It was like you found some sort of deep meaning. After years of tutoring, garden parties, and ribbon cuttings, I wanted that sort of thing so bad. Everything just seemed listless. There was always a schedule but it never felt like it was leading to anything. Doing well at a social event just meant another social event. The only people around who acted like it would lead to something happened to be mother and father, so I thought if I listened to them more, I could gain the same sort hidden insight that made them and you so sure. I would know where life was headed,” he explains.

Saying I feel kneed in the gut is an understatement. “Didn’t our parents belittling me constantly conflict with that?”

“I think in the beginning I thought I could separate it. I would just ignore what they said about you with a straight face and take in everything else. But it got all tangled up. At one point I realized I felt like someone hollowed out my chest, but I assumed that feeling just came with the journey, like how people used to say artists made great work when they were suffering,” he responds.

Not knowing what to say, I just move closer to Virgil and lay a hand on his shoulder.

“It wasn’t all terrible. They provided for us at least,” he adds

I tense up, but this time my frustration is for Virgil, not at him. “You need to stop saying that. Just because they did the bare minimum doesn’t mean we have to give anything close to a pat on the back.”

“Living under our parents made me feel like I had claws digging into my throat, but if we don’t find something good amongst everything that happened to us then doesn’t that mean the abuse from our parents took away everything from us? No truly nice moments, nothing to tell any kids we might have about? I think it made me a bit resilient,” Virgil’s deep voice usually has a strong presence, but now it sounds delicate.

“Suffering doesn’t make you strong. It’s just suffering. If you’re stronger after it’s over that strength came in spite of the suffering, not because of it,” I declare.

I start to rub his shoulder, studying his face for anything that might make me nervous about letting him go back to his room alone tonight. He doesn’t sound wrecked enough for anything too extreme to happen, but this entire conversation turned out to be pretty heavy, and it’s not always easy to get a read on him.

“I know I should be more mad at you for Elise right now but I can’t when I feel like I’ve solved a century old mystery,” I state.

“I guess we both have a thing for giving family special treatment,” he says.

I chuckle. “Can you believe they really called other people peasants?”

He smirks. “Who did they think they were, Queen Elizabeth?”

“Our great-whoever did novice magic for some blueblood for a couple of decades and father really decided to never shut up about it,” I sneer.

“Wanna complain about them for a few hours before bed?”

“Get me more wine and I’ll carry the entire conversation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are over the hill! I repeat, we are over the hill! New Blood is halfway over. I wonder what’s left for our heroes. Next chapter be like, what time is it? Adventure time! This chapter? ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST


	19. Ozymandias Not Oz - Oz

Despite Damien lounging in the car like he owns it, I can tell he’s tense. His arms are draped over the top of the seats, and he’s ninety degrees from a full man spread, but his tail is almost motionless. The only part that moves is the spade on the end, which is wearing it’s tip into the floor like a student rubs their eraser on a desk. I can’t imagine the man who sent the car for all of us will be happy, but I have much bigger things to worry about.

The circular passenger space in the retro limo is big enough for two people to sit comfortably between each one of us. But with Liam and Elise here it feels too small, and if I know one thing it’s that discomfort leads to anxiety and that’s just a barrel of gas waiting to blow.

After Christmas up until now mid January, our relationship had gotten . . . better? There isn’t an invisible cloud of volatile, mixed emotions whenever we are all in a room together anymore? The tension we have now is more cool, like when you meet your relatives who you have to make polite conversation with over the holidays, and you know you have to stick to certain topics; one comment can lead to bickering over your vastly different beliefs for hours. Rise and repeat, year after year.

The same soundtrack plays out between Virgil and Liam, the only two sources of sound during the past forty minutes. After Christmas Liam’s gaze softened from the harsh glare he always assumed when talking to his brother. Virgil seems a bit more hopeful. I imagine even though their personal relationship has improved, there’s still the months of lies. They stick to empty small talk, the kind you forget if someone asked about it half an hour later. I have to guess that’s why they had the rest of us flown over, to try and make talking a bit more casual; not that it worked.

“I wouldn’t guess Duarte would switch to limos when horses fell out of fashion. Has he gotten less thrifty?” Liam asks.

“A bit, but he still thinks spending more than fifty dollars at once is blasphemous,” Virgil replies.

“‘The passages are excessive enough’ as he used to say,” Liam says.

“Yes,” Virgil answers.

Silence. Based on last time’s pause it’ll last at least ten minutes. 

“Hey babe!” Damien says right against my ear. Leave him to figure out how to shout and whisper at the same time.

The tickle of his eyelashes against my skin make me forget some of my anxiety.

“Stop being so in your head,” he murmurs.

Damien tops off the order with a quick peck on the cheek.

Elise makes a sound that is awfully similar to a squeal before she coughs, cutting herself off. She looks pointedly out the window, desperate to avoid eye contact. When we entered the limo she smiled ear to ear, like excited just to sit in it while someone else drove. She quickly forced her grin off her face. I’m sure she still distrusts us and doesn’t want her penchant for being happy to give the impression she’s completely forgiven us yet.

Well, her sometimes penchant for being happy. Elise seems to switch from being bubbly to prickly on different days. An outsider would call it moodiness, but that doesn’t feel right. 

_ It’s not as if I’ve only seen her be happy when she’s bubbly. I remember her being encouraging too. And when she’s snappier she jokes around, drawls, even acts anxious, though I don’t think she notices. _

I frown. I just can’t put the right word to it.

“Hey,” Damien breaks into my thoughts again. “What did I say about working yourself up?”

His arm hooks around my waist and pulls me close enough that I’m almost halfway in his lap. I squeak. One of my phobias pops out and puts its arm on my other shoulder, patting it gently.

“I don’t need you to calm me down from my boyfriend grabbing me!” I protest.

“Generally, having people check in on you isn’t bad, even if it turns out you’re okay,” Elise chirps carefully. I don’t think she can stop herself from being vocally nice, but her tone continues to reinforce the unspoken boundary.

“Speaking of checking in,” Virgil cuts in. “I just got a text from Duarte. He says he called the driver to see how far away we are. It should be about two minutes.”

“It’s kind of weird that the seats are basically in their own room so we can’t talk to the driver,” Elise says. “It’s almost as weird as you being hired for a job Mr. Five Hundred Million Dollars.”

“It’s more of a favor. Someone Duarte has over wants some assistants so I asked Oz and Damien if they wanted to pitch in.” Virgil turns to his brother. “Then, ah, I mentioned to Liam where we were going.”

“Wait Elise, you didn’t know where we were going before you got in the car? You just let yourself be driven somewhere random?” I interrupt.

“I like long drives! And everyone else was getting in when it pulled up, so why not?” She replies.

“Elise.” I start, worried. “You wouldn’t jump off a cliff if everyone else was right?”

Elise’s eyes get a little cloudy as she starts daydreaming, her smile creeping back on her face. “I would if I had a bungee cord. Or a hang glider.”

“Bungee jumping is fucking sick,” Damien inputs.

“Bungee jumping can be very exhilarating,” Virgil says at the same time. 

All three of them tense. Damien looks like he’s beginning to backtrack, not sure if he should’ve added to Elise. Virgil’s expression is just about the same, but he splits his attention between Elise and Damien, fearing that his agreement with Damien made things even worse. And Elise seems to realize that they’re afraid they were too casual a second too late, leaving a moment of quiet that’ll make anything said after it sound forced and awkward, but the longer she puts it off the more intense the awkwardness will be.

_ Good gods. _ I lean my head back against the seat and press my hands over my eyes. Damien is too wrapped up in the most uncomfortable Mexican standoff I’ve ever seen to stop me. _ Someone save us. _

“We’re here,” Liam answers my prayers. He points to the window, and everyone turns to see what’s outside.

Duarte doesn’t seem to have flashy tastes. Besides being squared off on a private chunk of land at the end of its own road, there is nothing attention grabbing about his property like plants or statues. There’s the squeaking of a gate as we’re let in, tile marking the road, and flat stones where the grass would usually be before we stop. The ceiling of the car isn’t high enough for us to see the manor itself with the hood facing it. Liam steps out without a second thought, umbrella in hand. I can’t follow him any faster.

Big and small stones, some stained dark with age, make up the walls of the manor. While it’s clearly valuable due to the sheer size and antiquity, the design is simple. There’s a square tower that goes up three floors with one window for each. The rest of the estate is rectangular with two floors. It also possesses sparse windows. That’s it.

Holding his own umbrella over his head, Virgil passes his brother and knocks on the door. After a few moments it swings open, and an orange faced man comes out.

Dressed in a nice but humble suit, he smiles and starts embracing us, except for Elise who politely refuses. I smell squash, and realize that his head is a pumpkin carved into hair and a hyper real face.

When he gets to Liam he squeezes him so hard that Liam wheezes. 

“Young Liam! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. I’ve never been more ecstatic than when your brother told me you were in the country and asked if you could come along! If I didn’t know he still practices decorum I’d assume he’d gone insane. I haven’t seen you in how many years?” He asks.

“I left when I was around 150,” Liam ponders. “And I’m approximately 420 now . . .”

Damien snorts.

“So somewhere around 270,” Liam decides.

“Well come in, come in! I won’t force an old man to be on his feet all day.” Duarte clicks his tongue.

Liam rolls his eyes. “Ha ha. You’re far older than me.”

Duarte winks. “And getting handsomer by the day.”

The inside of the estate is far more furnished, but keeps things in a simple style. There’s an alcove with cushions, different lamps and chairs scattered through the room occupied by one guest, a large fireplace, and a wall sized bookshelf without embellishments another guest is poking through. The fanciest thing in the room is a copper tea tray held by a woman covered in flowering greenery.

Elise gasps, and the new stranger smiles. “I’m guessing you want a cocktail sausage dear?”

“Do I?” She smiles, before nervously clasping her hands together and raising her voice. “This is such a nice moment. _ We should all relax and enjoy it. We just need to remember to not be overly friendly. _ I’d hate for the rest of the day to be weird.”

The other woman smiles awkwardly, clearly confused. “You seem really into finger foods?”

“I’m more into the meat actually.” Elise slips towards her.

The uncomfortable atmosphere that followed us from the car dissipates at the unsubtle declaration. I relax. Damien pulls me close again as Liam judgmentally scans Duarte’s guests. 

“So who is desperate enough to need multiple assistants?” He asks. “I mean, someone who desperately needs multiple assistants.”

One of them turns at the sound of Liam’s voice, then seems to forget whatever he planned on saying once he sees Virgil next to him.

“Wow, you look like Josh Holloway! No wait.” He turns back to Liam. “Are _ you _ Josh Holloway?”

“I’ll never forgive you for making me a celebrity look alike through genetics Virgil. Never,” Liam declares.

“But this time they think you’re someone else famous,” Virgil defends.

“Because _ you _ look like someone else famous and I look like you!” Liam replies.

“Yeah but they don’t think you look like _ me _, me,” Virgil points out.

“That’s not better!” Liam says.

Duarte chuckles. Somehow it sounds sad.

He’s not the only contradiction in the room. Despite the playful tone of his and Liam’s conversation, Virgil sounds anything but.

“Liam asked a good question. Where is our mysterious “boss”?” He doesn’t sound nearly as hostile as Liam, but the evaluatory intensity he tends to wear among strangers is back.

“Epon, are you still in the kitchen?” Duarte calls. 

A centaur trots out of a door on the other side of the room, a gigantic bowl full of apples with raw sugar dumped on top of it. 

“This is the help I requested?” He asks.

“Hello sir!” I pipe up.

“Have you tried these sausages?” Elise picks up another and holds it out towards him.

Epon snorts. “Greasy meat isn’t exactly my taste thanks. I’m watching my figure.”

Epon unhinges his jaw like a snake, tilts his head back, and somehow manages to swallow four apples at once with a waterfall of sugar.

“Truly you are more sensible than the rest of us,” Liam snides.

“I’ll take fucking meat any day.” Damien offers his hand to Elise, trying to be casual. She puts it and three others in his palms, watching him shred them to pieces in his jaws.

“Is that why we’re here? You want us to make sure you have enough alternative choices? As a half equine you must have a significant daily intake, and if that intake can only come from different foods I understand why you might need some people to make some runs,” I theorize. 

Epon isn’t anything close to Damien, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to perform well when we’re presenting ourselves for a job, no matter how casual it may be.

“I can feed myself just fine. I need the extra hands to deal with Señor Duarte’s contest,” Epon corrects.

“I wouldn’t be so cutthroat to describe it as a contest!” Duarte interjects.

“Could you enlighten us with some details?” I ask.

“Well, I have lived an extraordinarily long time, but my time is coming up,” Duarte starts.

“But you’re a headless horseman,” Virgil interrupts. “Don’t you usually just replace your head when it gets old enough to start rotting?”

“It’s not the outside of the pumpkin that’s the problem.” Duarte taps his head. “I’m losing my gourd. I’m not as perceptive as I used to be. I forget things that I've memorized for centuries. My energy isn’t fully returning when I sleep. And I feel this song in my heart; I know the reaper’s scythe is coming.”

“Oh no!” Elise exclaims. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, young lady. All good things come to an end,” he sighs. “I’m glad I got to see Liam before my time is up. What an incredible stroke of luck! It seems the universe has decided to be serendipitous while I get my affairs in order.”

The judgemental stare Liam’s been raking over Duarte’s guests temporarily disappears.

“If my presence here makes you more at ease then I’m glad I happened to be in the country,” Liam softly agrees.

“But I’m starting to drift off topic. Epon is referring to matters of my inheritance. I’ve decided to give my most personal possessions to museums. Most of them are old enough to accrue historical value. Choice pieces of land I held onto to sell to future land developers have been donated to the National Parks Autonomous Agency. Considering the history of this house and what’s below it the Deputy Directorate-General and I both agree it’ll make a lovely tourist attraction. All that’s left is my coffers.”

He starts to point to his guests. “There’s Epon of course. You’ve met Floribunda, who so graciously served you sausage. The naga draped over the chair is Ophidian, and the air person poking through my books is Passerine. You will refer to Passerine appropriately by using ‘they and their’.”

Ophidian, who mistook Virgil and Liam for Josh Holloway, waves. He’s standing up, but the red tail that drags behind him is so long that plenty of it hangs off the back of a settee he probably lounged on before we got here. Passerine makes a sound of acknowledgement but doesn’t turn to address us.

“I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know the young people in this room over the past year, and have decided I will bequeath my money and smaller developed properties to one of them. Epon requested help with some of the tasks I’m using to, let’s say, evaluate everyone’s character,” Duarte explains.

“Sounds like Epon might be trying to cheat. How unoriginal.” Liam checks his nails.

Epon sputters. “How dare you! I need help because this bipedal world simply isn’t made for me. Observe!”

Epon clops towards a small coffee table, and attempts to pick up a pencil from the cup perched upon it. But his horse half makes him too tall, and he needs to twist his torso into an uncomfortable looking shape to even be in range. While he grunts and strains, his unhelpful horse half stays completely still. Damien begins to laugh and turns it into an unconvincing ‘cough’.

“Still,” Virgil says gruffly. “Wouldn’t having more people to possibly think for him create an unfair advantage?”

“If you just follow orders and don’t team up with him, I don’t see the harm,” Duarte says.

“I assure you I don’t need help to figure out riddles and challenges for me. The Duarte family might’ve made their fortune from secret passages, but I make treasure hunts for a living,” Epon brags.

Damien’s face lights up. “I knew this fucker had to be the same one from Virgil’s texts!”

“Ah, that’s why you agreed to lend a hand,” Virgil realizes. “You said yes to helping someone so quickly I’ve actually been a bit concerned.”

“Fucker?” Epon looks uncertain. “That’s a bold way of referring to Señor Duarte considering you just met him. Are you sure you're the sort of person suited to an undertaking like this?”

“You calling me a dumbass?” Damien demands.

“Of course not Damien,” Liam says. “If this donkey were to insult you using ass he’d have to be foolish enough to use himself as a synonym for stupid. Hmm, wait.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! There’s no need to get up in arms. I’m sure you’ll get along smashingly. I know Virgil is a fine man and I have no doubt the company he’s decided to align himself with are no different,” Duarte soothes.

Epon grumbles something about wanting more formal help but backs down. Objectively, I can’t exactly blame him. Having someone scream fucker isn’t exactly the best impression, plus I know if the two of them got into a scrape my boyfriend would kick his ass, so the closest I come to malice as Epon sulks out of the room is secondhand embarrassment.

Damien seems surprised at Virgil leaping to his personal defense and stares at him. Liam squirms. Elise walks back from the finger foods as Virgil begins making rounds around the room, and Liam yanks her to his side.

“Touching,” she grumbles.

“Excuse me Elise, but we have to talk about Epon. He might not be trying to cheat but I can already tell he’s going to give me migraines,” Liam says.

“You don’t have to be so judgemental Liam, we haven’t even been here that long. Give him a chance like you did me,” she encourages.

“I liked you Elise because you were interesting and turned out to be pleasant to be around,” Liam explains.

“Well,” Elise pauses. She seems to remember I’m only a foot away and makes a small gesture with her hands. Liam pauses, floating over her head so he can arrange himself to whisper right into her ear instead of bending down. If they hadn’t stopped it would look like two close friends gossiping.

Anxiety seizes my body. “H-Ha, a bit overly friendly?”

Elise smiles politely. “Just a bit shug.”

“I’ll, uh, go talk to Epon to get an idea of our schedule,” I offer.

I dart into the kitchen.

* * *

_ If Elise and Virgil don’t move I’m going to have a fit. _I think.

Sweating bullets, I lean over a kitchen counter. A few sheets of paper I managed to scavenge contain my detailed notes from what Epon told me: when he gets up in the morning, what time of day Duarte usually sends someone out for a task, etc. But if I knew writing would lead me into overhearing this I would’ve just committed everything to memory.

_ Why do I have to be so in love with bullet points and dashes? _I mentally agonize.

After Epon left the kitchen it probably seemed empty; I’m not known for making a lot of noise. Virgil and Elise drifted near it to have a private conversation. By the time I stopped zoning out and realized what was going on it was too late to leave without making things awkward.

Awkward, awkward, awkward. All this day has been is awkward. The car, with Elise and Liam, and now with Elise and Virgil. When Elise told everyone to chill out I hoped that it’d all go away, but it only seemed to keep us from petering out every five seconds. I let one of my phobias hold my thumb in their tiny hands, soothingly patting the sides. 

“I think we both thought that bringing everyone over would help things continue to move along. Being by ourselves worked at first, but eventually we just became two men who didn’t know how to keep interacting,” Virgil confides.

“No offense De Lioncourt, but that’s probably because the part of your relationship that still needs to fixed can’t really be talked through. You don’t debate someone into trusting you. And talking about that with you feels wierd considering how personal this is and the fact that he doesn’t trust you is because you lied to _ me _,” Elise murmurs.

“I know. I’m not trying to cross that overly friendly boundary, but how can I show you and him that I’m trustworthy through my actions if I don’t have a chance to do that. I mean . . .” Virgil struggles to put his point into words.

Elise sighs pityingly. “I’m not trying to make things difficult but I don’t know exactly how to handle that either. Look, if you do find some sort of opening or chance or whatever with Liam, all I can tell you is don’t judge the impact of the interaction by how short it is. Even when Liam and I are having a serious heart to heart, he doesn’t tend to ramble on forever. There’s probably not going to be a big grandiose moment. Just a bunch of little ones stacked on top of each other.”

“Okay.” Virgil grunts. “It’s nice that you took the time to even listen to me, all things considered. You’re the one I messed with. I’m not trying to dump my man pain on you.”

_ Can I stop overhearing things? _ I beg the universe. _ Please, this is such a personal conversation. I’m not going to be winning trust points either. _

“And I care about getting you back too,” he promises. “I miss our banter and conversation. I miss you smiling at me and knowing I have your trust. This is going to sound so stupid, but I wish I was on my show, booming and fucking around like a maniac so I could do some sort of big gesture.”

“I wouldn’t call yourself a maniac. It’s okay to be incredibly passionate about something. When so many people try to be aloof and sarcastic 24/7 it’s kind of refreshing. Liam’s my closest friend, but I wouldn’t say he’s what everyone should aim to be,” Elise says.

“You comforting me about insignificant things I say about myself is starting to be a pattern,” he comments.

“As long as you make honesty a pattern I’m sure you can pay me back,” she insists.

“I can’t imagine a world where you don’t feel completely comfortable around me being one I want to be in,” he declares.

Elise makes a sound of surprise. “That’s a little intense.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“God fucking dammit.”

“De Lioncourt?” Elise sounds confused. 

Virgil isn’t someone I’ve ever imagined “stomping away” but the heavy footsteps that quickly bound away have to be his. I don’t hear Elise anymore and hope it means she went after him.

Folding my notes into a neat square, I inch towards the exit. I poke my head out.

No Elise.

All of my phobias start petting me on my back as I take a celebratory inhale and exhale.

“Not staying out here any longer,” I declare to myself. It would be just in line with today’s luck to accidentally linger too long celebrating my liberation and somehow overhearing a _ third _ conversation today.

I slowly walk through the room everyone was chatting in earlier, not wanting to bump into Virgil and Elise fast enough that they question if I was nearby. For half a second I wonder what Virgil’s strange exit was all about, before my anxiety about accidentally eavesdropping makes me drop it. My glacial pace continues through the connecting hallway and the next room, hearing faint voices emanating on the other side of the wall.

_ I think I’ve made enough of a buffer. I can just join in on whatever is happening now. _

Poking my head in, I see the space is some kind of media room, and a rather tipsy Duarte is walking back and forth on a long coffee table people are sitting behind. Sending the smell of spiked pumpkin as he shouts, he wildly gestures around the room at nothing in particular. The Boss isn’t anywhere to be seen, but the rest of the group is. Virgil is chugging a tall glass of cognac, and Elise looks too worried about Duarte falling for there to be any chance of her conversation with Virgil to be on her mind. No one else seems to be panicking, so I relax, and quietly settle between Ophidian and Passerine, the only guests of Duarte’s here.

“And that’s why my family’s estate stayed! You won’t believe the number of uppercrusts who basically nagged me to spend more the second running everything was passed down to me! On these ridiculous status symbols! I had a young gentleman legitimately ask me why I didn’t own a gold toilet seat! Can you imagine?” Duarte shouts.

“Sir if I wasn’t in a room full of people out of my tax bracket, I’d go on and on about how rich people blow my mind on a regular basis but don’t you think I’d be safer if you bellowed on the floor?” Elise begs.

“I doubled the Duarte name from 50 million to 100 million,” he continues undeterred. “If an interest costs you more than a crisp hundred it’s not worth it!”

Something feels off, until I realize that I haven’t heard any of Liam’s trademark snark despite this being a prime opportunity. Glancing at him, I see his attention is fixed on his brother, who is filling up his glass again. I don’t know how alcohol affects vampires due to how blood alcohol concentration usually works, but Liam actually looks a little worried.

“Virgil what has you so worked up?” He starts to hiss.

“Virgil!” Duarte picks up on the name. “You know how to manage an estate. Of course you do, you and Liam never fail to impress me. I’d let you in on this whole endeavor if you both weren’t already wealthy enough on your own. What I have must look like pocket change to you.”

Virgil clears his throat and sits up straight, trying to look composed. “I don’t think comparing in all the times we snuck over here for a getaway from our family with you crossed my mind even once.”

_ Oh he definitely had too much. _

I inch forward and gently ease the glass out of his hand.

“Trust me, as someone who is anxious just about all the time, alcohol does not help as much as you think it does,” I say.

He doesn’t protest when I put it to the side along with the glass flask he’s pouring it from. Liam hovers without quite knowing what to do, but if he thinks that matters Duarte doesn’t show it.

“It always helped put me at ease when I used to see you two help each other out,” he says, voice growing quiet. “I know that Vladimir and Drusilla weren’t . . . the best with people. I thought about stepping in but the sort of social backlash I’d seen Drusilla unleash on people intimidated me. ‘Thought I’d be better off waiting until I had my own kids to start saying what’s best for them. That didn’t quite work out if you couldn’t tell.”

He laughs bitterly, and I feel the awkwardness in the room rise. Having his old life put out in the open makes Liam look like a deer in the headlights as his face flushes. Virgil is a little too out of it to really react, but Ophidian and Passerine look unphased.

_ Has Duarte talked about this before? _ I wonder. My face turns hot as I emphatically turn pink with Liam. _ I thought I was going to be the only one to feel personally targeted by the universe today. _

“Still principitos,” Duarte continues. “Watching you two get older really has been one of the highlights of the time I’ve been blessed with. I remember long before Virgil came along when you were still more traditionalist Liam. You were fantastic in vampiric duels, your skills seemed to double by the day. Remember that Liam?”

“Yes Duarte,” Liam stiffly replies.

Duarte finally seems to clue into the atmosphere he’s created. “Oh. How long have I been going?”

“Long enough.” It’s the first time I’ve heard Passerine speak. They get up and get in front of Elise, easing Duarte down and leading him out.

“Well that happened.” Liam stands, looking more than ready to leave. With how today turned out I can’t blame him. At this point I just want to go to sleep and try at life again tomorrow.

“I’m sorry about that. At one point I realized he was going off on a tangent but I didn’t know how to interrupt,” Ophidian apologizes. 

“It’s comforting to know Duarte usually talks about our home life and we didn’t make him feel like he had to put on a special performance,” Liam says, tight lipped.

“He doesn’t! I meant he’ll go on about anything. But this sounded kind of personal so jumping in just felt weird,” Ophidian explains.

“Wow this is really making me feel better.” Liam crosses his arms. “I think we’ll be taking our leave for today.”

Virgil gets up after him, stumbling. I can tell Liam doesn’t know quite what to do with the boundary in place, so I sling one of Virgil’s big arms over my shoulders and pretend I have enough strength to keep him upright if he actually falls.

“We can’t go without Damien,” I remind Liam.

“We’ll wait by the exit then,” Liam decides.

“I’ll walk you there,” Ophidian offers.

Our group trods after Ophidian as he talks about seeing us tomorrow. We’re in the hallway when I hear the familiar sound of hooves behind us. Epon clears his throat.

“I see Duarte also let your brother help himself to his spirits,” Epon comments.

“I’m not that drunk,” Virgil protests, his voice noticeably careful and slow.

“I just heard from Passerine how Señor Duarte spent a significant amount of time lavishing you with praise. I’m starting to doubt if Duarte just contacted you to help me,” Epon accuses.

Damien comes up from behind him, jumps like a kid trying to touch a door frame, and flicks him in the back of his head.

“What, are you trying to fucking say we’re plotting against you Twilight Sparkle? I’m pretty sure we’re all richer than you,” he taunts.

“Well I never!” Epon huffs.

Virgil straightens as if he wants to say something but pitches to the right out of my arms. Before I can freak out about him hitting his head, the part of the wall he makes contact with pitches back like a doggy door and Virgil starts to fall into whatever's behind it.

“Holy shit!” Damien shouts.

“Catch him!” Elise yells.

He and Liam dive after him and manage to haul him backwards onto solid ground again. They take over holding him as I sputter, moving to touch the tilted wall panel.

“What is this?” I ask Ophidian.

“One of the Duarte family tunnels,” Virgil beats them to the punch. “Back in the old days they were used for guarding things or transporting people on the run. There’s a bunch of them under the property. Forgot they were here. My bad.”

“That’s it!” Liam throws his hands in the air. “I’ve had too much of _ today,_ today. Everyone get in the car.”

We match Liam’s speed as he rushes past Ophidian, though Damien is confused.

“Satan’s balls, what happened while I was in the piss palace?” He asks.

“Don’t ask Boss,” I sigh.

“Oz, is what we’re going to do tomorrow have anything to do with those tunnels? I’d rather get a heads up than be caught off guard again,” Elise says.

“According to Epon Duarte is sending him out of the house on some sort of errand, so it’s doubtful,” I answer.

“I’ll admit I stood up way too fast but it wasn’t that bad,” Virgil dismisses. “I can fly and the panel didn’t even have a locking mechanism. Duarte told me about a section of the underground system called the Seventh Mouth, a set of seven doors that lead to seven pits. He doesn’t remember what they’re for but he said he thinks one of his ancestors might have liked to watch people panic while they were thrown inside.”

“If only they were here and not the sloppy dickfuck who decided to get sloshed at, what fucking time is it now? The afternoon? I know you have to go to bed at five grandpa but come on,” Damien rags.

“You’re calling me a grandpa when you can’t even remember the time old man?” Virgil bites back.

“I will fucking drop you bitch,” Damien goads.

“I remember when we talked like that,” Liam interjects.

_ Oh no not this again. _I lament as the Mexican standoff starts up again, only slightly different from when we were driving over.

“Liam must’ve been even crankier back then,” Elise mercifully cuts in.

“Uh, ha, yeah he kinda was,” Damien cautiously agrees.

“I can’t say that’s untrue,” Liam concedes, smiling just a little.

I relax for what feels like the umpteenth time. At least the ride back seems like it will be more bearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: The idea for business Damien came from that one plot thread where he’s trying to start a weird ass griffin pasta business with Scott. Also from the Monster Camp sneak peak scenario where he actually becomes a competent lawyer over pizza. Oz’s entire mood this chapter is like like when Thomas Jefferson in Hamilton goes “Can we get back to politics?” and Madison goes “pLeASe”.
> 
> I will not apologize for using the phrase “losing my gourd” seriously.


	20. Roadtrip To Hell - Damien LaVey

I’m so used to coldass Salt in the winter that getting to experience sixty-one degrees in Spain feels like the best late Christmas gift of my life. 

I smirk as a ray of sun washes over my face, the memory of Oz slinking out of our closet in a boyshort suit made out of red velvet and white fluff replaying behind my eyes. 

Ok, technically it’s the second best.

If it wasn’t for Satan Claws, the holidays back in the states would be a total bust. Fuck snow and fuck the clouds it comes from.

_ Maybe I should get a vacation home here. _I muse. 

“If you could stop being horny and actually pay attention to the hike maybe I can trick myself into believing you’re actually helpful,” Epon grouses.

“You don’t know if I’m horny or not!” I bark.

“I can sense the demonic energy of your boner!” Epon accuses.

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?” I scream.

“Boss,” Oz intervenes. “Let’s just enjoy the walk.”

“Thank you Oz,” Liam yawns.

“Y-You’re welcome,” Oz says.

They look up at me, cautiously excited. From long fucking silences, to not knowing if we were being too casual, the kinda-normal talking we have this morning feels like an Olympic medal. I don’t know if getting up early made Liam and Elise tired enough to loosen up but I’m not going to bitch about it anytime soon.

_ Not that I’m going to fucking trick them. _ I think. _ I’m not a scrote._

It’s just that I can’t shake the, not to be fucking dramatic, but the high of Liam smiling at the memory of our bickering. I remember trying to call him forever ago, and right before he hung up I called him brother in a Freudian fuck-up or whatever that wasn’t half as embarrassing as it should’ve been. Through all of our name calling I don’t remember ever thinking of Liam as my sibling, but hearing the idea out loud certainly didn’t feel wrong. Knowing he’s sort of fond of those times feels nice. Especially after getting ripped into at the party, which felt like someone dropping an anvil on my dick. I knew things weren’t going to be calm but the whiplash from finally seeing his face again to seeing that face scream at me was, well —

“Hey!” Oz interrupts my thoughts. “Stop being so in your head.”

They grab me by the horn to pull me down and press their lips to mine, long fingers caressing my face. It’s over way too fast, Oz smiling shyly as they straighten the knot of their tie under their turtleneck’s collar.

I wrap my tail around their waist and bring them close again as we continue to walk. 

“I’m pretty sure that was what authors call a callback. Someone’s in a word play-e mood,” I flirt.

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t grammatically correct,” Oz says.

“Another kiss from the teacher might jog my memory.” I lean closer.

Oz squeaks. “Not too much. I know we’re in the back but we can’t just start making out. I’m pretty sure everyone would eventually notice.”

“Are you sure? Epon seems pretty fucking busy nudging everyone in front of him,” I say

Elise, Liam, and Virgil proceed the centaur by less than a yard. The two vampires border Elise’s side, creating a large spot of shadow with their umbrellas. Epon hasn’t bothered them with any bullshit for a while. It’s pretty hard to find something to complain about on a scenic garden path to an even more scenic looking house to deliver a pretty little box.

_ I wish Duarte challenged him to a picking up pencils contest. _I snicker, thinking of yesterday.

“It would be lovely if we had some cafe style food,” Elise sighs. “Like those perfect sandwiches with the crust cut off that stand up on their own and pretty drinks. And macaroons! With the scenery we could stop to picnic and look like we’re in a Ghibli movie.”

Oz looks out around us. “This would be a nice place to stop and read a book.”

Knee high wildflowers fan out in all directions except for where the beaten path is in front of us. A couple of trees spring up every so often next to it, like someone tried to create a natural place to stop.

“I think you two are right,” Liam agrees. “This does seem like a place Kiki would stop to read her big book and eat breakfast.”

I start my taunt off slow, testing the waters. “You like bitchin’ Ghibli movies Liam? Those became mainstream a while ago. Why the special exception?”

“That’s personal,” he cuts me off. 

I try not to let the sharp dismissal effect me, but having things feel like they were seminormal before Liam reminded me I still haven’t earned his trust back is disorienting as fuck. Still, being shut down feels much better than yesterday’s small, stilted replies and silences. When Elise called him cranky and I agreed, the half second before he smiled felt like shit.

“Uh, sorry.” I apologize.

“We can talk about your interest though if you want to talk about Ghibli. You enjoy the films too? I figured they would be too slow paced for you,” Liam says.

“Of course I fucking love Ghibli! Stories about love, whether it’s love of family or adoration for friends is fucking metal. And when the plot is technically neither of those things because friends are family and the movie blurs the line between how far people usually go for people they’re not related to by blood, well that’s some of the best shit I’ve ever seen,” I declare. 

Epon makes a shocked sound. “That’s surprisingly poetic coming from you.”

“Didn’t you call me Twilight Sparkle yesterday? I’m literate as fuck.” I smirk.

“I did not!” Epon whinies. 

“Ghibli movies are great but sometimes that aspect of caring makes them _ so _depressing. I haven’t even watched Grave of the Fireflies because the few scenes I saw online were too much,” Elise confesses.

“I remember reading the book. I think it’s because death feels so different in it,” Oz softly speaks up. “In a lot of movies it’s sad but simple. You miss people. Your routine changes and feels awkward because you’re used to how it feels when they are there. But there were so many more threads in that book and senseless things that didn’t need to happen and didn’t really have any reason to, but they did and that’s just how life goes.”

I look at Liam. He looks pensive. What would we have done if we didn’t fall apart after what happened to everyone? It wasn’t as if we just let each other drift. It wasn’t fucking senseless or anything, it just got too volatile. But it still feels senseless because, no matter what, shouldn’t we have been able to look at the two fuckass decisions our situation left us with ― to somehow stick together or to never see each other again ― and choose the obvious one so we could continue the cycle of seeing each other every day?

“What are you thinking of?” Oz whispers.

“Nothing,” I lie.

Oz narrows their eyes. “Didn’t we have an entire fight about you coddling me too much and thinking that I can’t handling talking about grief?” 

I relent. “You’re right. I’m just thinking about shit that didn’t need to happen and how we got here. I had you when everything was going on, which is more than Liam fucking had. And more than that you showed me that you could adapt to and still be yourself. You were still quiet during work but that didn’t make you any less efficient. I didn’t have to come out some different bitch. And I know I tried to stay with Liam, so I can’t say that I didn’t try, but it still feels like it should’ve been avoidable.”

“I don’t think anyone would say, ‘Yeah drifting from my friends definitely had to happen,” Oz comforts. “But don’t let that feeling keep you from your second chance now.”

“I’m not. I just feel shitty,” I grumble.

“I’m pretty sure that’s it Epon.” Virgil’s voice rises above everyone else’s whispering and talking.

The biggest fucking cottage I’ve ever seen rises against the horizon. The stucco walls look like they have geraniums exploding out the side. Poppies planted under the window look like they’re in danger of overtaking the godsdamnedwindows. Rocks have been carved into the hillside so water can neatly flow down them into a big lily filled lake that sits under a bridge. Bluebells wall the path that leads from the end of the bridge to the cottage’s front door, and there are pomegranate trees just about everywhere else. It looks fucking majestic.

Elise and Oz both gasp. Liam takes out his phone and immediately starts taking pictures that aren’t blurry pieces of garbage and Epon actually looks happy for once.

“The aesthetics here are going to make me shit myself,” I say.

“This looks like a book cover!” Oz declares.

Virgil is nonreactive, which isn’t fucking surprising at all. We’re a couple of minutes from meeting a stranger so like always, he’s defaulted to “I don’t look like I care but you’re still going to feel uncomfortable because for some reason I still have the presence of a death lazer”. He hums noncommitedly, which Elise mistakes for hunger somehow.

“You like pomegranates De Lioncourt?” Elise chirps.

Virgil straightens, and when I catch a glimpse of his eyes they’re wide.

“Not particularly,” he says.

“I get it. Pomegranates are really tart. They’re not that popular. Most people don’t like them,” she comments.

“I must try one immediately,” Liam decides.

“We are not going to make our first impression with Señor Duarte’s dear friend stealing from his lawn! Hurry across the bridge so we can greet him with the grandiosity he deserves.” Epon stomps his hooves.

“Alright Merriam-Webster, stop shitting yourself,” I grouse. 

The distance between all of us closes as we get closer and start to cross the bridge. The wooden boards creak softly under my feet, and for the first time the thick aroma of all of the plants finally hits me. Shit smells better than Gucci aftershave. I stop. Liam does too.

“Boss?” Oz calls back to me, confused.

“What are you both doing?” Elise asks.

“Making us look like loiterers,” Epon whines.

“I’m pretty sure I know what Damien is thinking, though I don’t know how Liam arrived at the same thought or decided it was valid,” Virgil says.

“This place is way too fucking nice. It’s gotta be a trap or something,” I declare.

“Damien I know you think helping people is weird unless it leads to ‘dope bullshit’ and that any place that’s quiet for more than five seconds is deranged, but just because a place is welcoming and placid doesn’t mean it’s rigged somehow. And if it is, it’s better to actually figure out more so we know what we’re dealing with instead of sitting here like ducks,” Virgil says.

“Don’t talk to me like you’re my dads Sangeek. I’m in design, I can appreciate a layout like this. It’s something else,” I insist.

“He’s right. I don’t know if it’s necessarily dangerous, but there’s something . . . Off here,” Liam agress.

My tail feels stiff, like a cat’s when they’ve been startled from behind. The longer whatever I’m picking up lasts, the more I agree with Liam. I’m not sure if it’s something sinister or something uncanny. Crooked?

“Maybe you two are picking up on a ley line,” Elise suggests. “I definitely feel like this place has a presence but I assumed it’s just because of how beautiful and distinct it is.”

“Then we definitely need to know more. If it’s magic we could leave now under some effect. Behind me,” Virgil orders.

Epon has gotten too cowed by our suspicion to complain as Virgil takes the lead and marches up the hill. Liam is close behind him, kept from being exactly by his brother’s side by the former’s outstretched hand, like an adult trying to keep a kid from running into traffic. With the hand that doesn’t immediately grasp Oz’s I crack my knuckles. From the way their breath picks up I can tell they’re getting nervous, but they give me a reassuring smile. Epon trails behind like a fucking chode.

Virgil boldly pounds his fist against the door, and projects his voice like someone coming to serve a court order.

“Whoever it may concern, we have a delivery for you from Señor Duarte, please open up,” he booms.

He has to do it two more times before the little slot in the middle of the door slides to the side, and eight pair of eyes stare out the huge peephole at us.

“Are you Epon and his entourage?” He whispers at us.

“Y-Yes,” Epon confirms.

The sound of about a dozen locks licking and hook clasps undoing comes from the door. It slowly swings open, and a pale face that can barely lean down enough to be seen in the doorway greets us, a gigantic bent leg passing behind it.

“Come in and sit down immediately,” he orders.

Virgil stays placidly commanding as he walks in, closing his umbrella but keeping it by his side. Liam decides to do the same thing with his as well, and Elise starts fishing around in the black backpack she decided to where today. I can’t imagine what she could be doing before I remember I’ve never actually seen her perform a real spell before.

_ If I get to see her blast this guy or some shit I won’t give a fuck about whatever weird shit is going on in this house. _I grin maniaclly.

“Damien,” Virgil catches my attention. “Sit by me.”

I look at the loveseat he’s decided to seat himself at, which only has room for one more. He’s doing that thing where his eyes look like they can pierce through your skull, readying himself in case he needs to intimidate whoever the fuck this is. He gestures at me and I realize he wants me to join him.

_ Well it’s about fucking time he acknowledges I’m fucking terrifying! _

I squeze Oz’s hands before I swagger over, sitting with one foot on the cushion and a palm spread over a knee, claws scratching against my jeans.

Liam and Elise draw Oz closer to them, much to my and their surprise.

Liam rolls his eyes. “Just because of how things are now doesn’t mean we want something to happen to you.”

Oz and I grin at each other before the bigass stranger blocks our view of each other, their legs creating a natural fence. He decides to sit down in the middle of all of us where a coffee table would usually go. He’s so tall though that we still have to look up to meet his eyes.

I’ve never seen a drider before, but this guy doesn’t exactly have me rapt with his first impression. His head is neatly shaved, and a burlap dress hangs off his frame, probably the only thing he could get over his thorax.

Epon leans towards him to hand over the box, but they reject it.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, “I can’t take a gift from guests without getting to know why they’re in Duarte’s little sweepstakes.”

“Epon is the only one involved. We’re just helping,” Elise clarifies.

“Yes,” Oz backs her up. “We arranged a professional dynamic that ensures Epon isn’t getting any extra help figuring out the challenges, but has extra hands for mobility issues or tasks made difficult by his equine features.”

Pedipalps slides out of the driver’s mouth and makes a clicking noise that somehow sounds condescending. “I don’t care.”

“Excuse you?” Liam mouths off.

“I’ve personally decided to act as if you are. If you object you’re welcome to leave, but I won’t be taking that box on the way out,” he says silkily.

I scowl. “Huh? Why? Are you playing some fucking game?”

He fixes his gaze on me, smiling wide. “Ah! And you must be the foul mouthed one. Not that Duarte describes you that way, but I’ve always been the most honest of the two of us. I am Woriwed. Shake my leg.”

As he extends it to me I yank it the rest of the way, squeezing as hard as I can. I don’t know if you can crush a leg in a handshake like fingers but my uncertainty is not going to keep me from fucking trying.

“Now that I see your face, I’m certain that you’re not simply 'part of Virgil’s company'. Damien LaVey correct? Prince of the 8th Circle of Hell, son to Lucien and Stan LaVey, current CEO of a design firm under their estate, specializes in interior design and crafting specialized furnishings,” he rattles off.

“What, is that supposed to intimidate me? All that tells me is that you read my Wikipedia page. I can read yours too: born a wackass bitch, grew-up on Rude Little Shit Lane and graduated with a masters in pussyfooting,” I snark.

Woriwed cups his chin. “What’s with all the hostility?”

“You’re clearly ramping up to fuck with us or something,” I accuse.

“And we’re not really in the mood for mind games. Toying with guests isn’t nearly as theatrical as you think it is. It’s been the plot of just about every romantic thriller in the last decade,” Liam insults.

The De Lioncourt brothers look extraordinarily similar as they dress down Woriwed with their eyes, though Liam’s carries significantly more disgust and boredom. Virgil seems more intent on picking him apart.

“I told you, we’re going to talk about why you’re all involved with Duarte. Unless you want to forfeit the “professional dynamic” you have with Epon because I get him disqualified,” Woriwed hums.

“Don’t!” Epon practically shrieks. “I want this more than anything else in the world! Don’t!”

Epon’s desperation might be moving if I actually gave a fuck about him. But I already know we can’t say fine and walk out. Virgil wouldn’t offer to help out Duarte if he didn’t plan to follow through, Oz isn’t going to let him stay behind on his own when there’s work to be done, and to be honest I kinda hate the idea of leaving Virgil behind too. I know he can fend for himself, but I’m not leaving my fucking friend with the spider’s from Charlotte’s Web cringyass cousin.

Elise clears her throat awkwardly. “I think you can take the group silence as an agreement hun.”

Elise makes a face as soon as she finishes saying hun, obviously regretting it. It’s definitely enough material for Woriwed to say something weird.

“Are you flirting with me? I’m a little old for you young lady,” Woriwed says.

“No, I’m southern.” Elise clarifies, smiling uncomfortably. “I talk to most people like that.”

“I suppose that’s served you well in this circle,” Woriwed responds.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asks.

“With half a glance at you I can tell you’re not like the others here. Your costume jewelry is tasteful enough that I’m sure most people can’t tell, but I’m a bit of a connoisseur in beautiful things. If we combined the networth of most of the people in here we could pass the GDP of entire countries, but you’re upper middle class _ at best _,” Woriwed prods. “I’ve never seen someone casually use nicknames to network before but I can see the appeal. Draw in any of the people in here with flirtations, entice them to let you hang around them, but never limit yourself to one person’s company because things aren’t official. You’re beautiful enough for it to be very effective.”

“T-That is not appropriate!” Oz proclaims, shocked.

“Yeah, fuck off!” I yell.

Liam opens his mouth, poised to verbally tear this fucker to shreds when Elise stands up, hands balled into fists. She stutters for half a second, begins to sit back down, before deciding to stay on her feet.

“That isn’t even close to what’s going on here sir. I happened to meet Liam, we became good friends, and naturally I ended up meeting other people he knows,” she retorts.

“Are you sure you don’t have any feelings for him?” Woriwed presses. “In my experience men and women who say they’re ‘good friends’ rarely are. I think you’re lying.”

Liam groans. “How heteronormative.”

“No you don’t.” Elise crosses her arms. “What you actually think is that you can throw random stuff to the wall and hope something sticks. You’ve known us for five seconds, there’s no way you could have the insight to accurately assess us.”

“So you don’t like nice things? Money?” Woriwed steamrolls on.

“Yes,” she starts before he cuts her off.

“So you are lying,” he reassert.

“I can get nice things without other people. Nothing about the concept of objects of money or objects say that you need someone else to get them, and the implication that they do is you trying to make me trip up and sound shitty. You’re not slick,” she whips back.

“Don’t be overdramatic. I just trying to learn about you. Just like your staring friend is trying to learn about me.” Woriwed gestures to Virgil.

Unlike before where Virgil’s face was intense but otherwise unreadable, there’s no doubt that he’s pissed now. Not with the same anger that’s making me clench my jaw and bare my teeth, but with with the intense sort of fury professors get when some overconfident new student starts insulting them because they think they know the subject better, and they’re about to coolly lay down the law.

“Would you like to join in?” Woriwed baits.

“I can defend myself,” Elise cuts in before Virgil has a chance.

“You seem very intent on not letting your friends—”

“Look, you pestilence.” Elise’s voice has dropped an octave. “I’ve established twice now that I know what you’re doing. Drawing in other people isn’t going to drag this out. I’d say not to brag but I won’t because being rude is the only thing that seems to make any sense to you. I got my business license in my junior year of high school. My first quarter had 130,000 different people clicking on my site’s content to see my products. And you want to know why I’m smart enough to know every word you’re saying is pulled straight from your titanic one cheeked spider ass?”

_ Well shit. _It’s like the peppy Elise we walked in here with fucking bounced. 

The whiplash doesn’t just get me. Everyone else seems similarly stunned as Elise flops back onto the cushions and crosses her legs.

Woriwed is glowing. “Well I think I’ve been thoroughly satisfied by you. Moving on.”

He pivots towards Oz and I automatically shout. “NO! Fuck off!”

Woriwed instantly looks bored. “I’ve had enough of spice today. I guess that means we’re skipping the yellow one.”

With all eight eyes he’s able to look at Virgil and Liam next. The latter's boredom has evolved into mockery after the drider got shut down, and he curls a finger towards himself invitingly.

“Oh I have to hear this. Will you focus on our age, our immortality, and ask us if this is a fleeting fancy because we’ve somehow lost the ability to appreciate things in a ‘real way’? Maybe if we’re just biding our time to turn our friends into snacks? Feed me the line that you’re going to try and sell off later as you ‘testing us’ if we’re unfortunately forced to be in each other’s company again. Go on,” he beckons.

“You’re right Liam.” Even though he’s still fixated on him, Virgil talks like Woriwed isn’t there. “This is a very pretentious game.”

“But you still have to sit through it,” Woriwed confirms shamelessly. “I notice you two are sitting apart. Is there a story behind that?”

“Virgil and I know we would be better at kicking your ass together so we decided to preemptively assume the position,” I growl.

“I’m just curious to see how much you’ve drifted from Duarte’s daydream. I know when he first showed up on my doorstep with the incessant ambition to befriend me having you as his wards was a very strong desire, as much as he denied it back then,” Woriwed says.

“You’re exaggerating,” Liam says dismissively. “And in the case we have drifted, I fail to see how it’s going to help whatever trick you’re pulling now more successful.”

“If I was still interested in your participation in the contest, you would’ve found out right about now. But now that I’ve started to think about Duarte all those years ago I think I’ve put myself in the mood for reminiscing,” Woriwed decides. “I'm quite sure if it wasn’t for you two we wouldn’t know each other past acquaintances.”

“Oh tell us more of your fucking riveting tales of the past grandpa,” I mock.

“He came up on my property as if he made an appointment. I knew him from cleaning up all the corpses but it didn’t exactly make us friendly in that sort of way, so obviously I was irritated,” he continues.

“C-Corpses?” Oz stutters.

“Mm, from the Seventh Mouth. Once it was rediscovered Duarte couldn’t quite stand the stench of death it emanated. Driders are quite good with dark damp places, so when he found out one lived nearby he was delighted. Then a week after all the work is done, he shows up with a huge basket he clearly made for someone else and topics that were much better suited for children. I’d never seen someone make themselves so miserable before. Captivating,” Woriwed says.

“You sound like a first class comrade fucko,” I insult. “If you’re Duarte’s friend then he’s got terribleass taste.”

“Sometimes being friends with someone is less about the quality and more about the time invested in them,” Woriwed explains. “Besides, I don’t think you need me to see Duarte’s doesn’t really know how to pick them. Isn’t that right, centaur?”

He looks derisively at Epon. As Epon flushes an embarrassed red, I don’t know if I genuinely feel bad for him or if I hate Woriwed so much I’ll sympathize with anything that gives we a chance to bitch about him.

He snaps his fingers. “Okay give me the box now.”

“Huh?” Epon sputters.

“He’s bored. We’ve given him his fun and now we’re being sent on our way,” Virgil analyzes.

“I know you’re not doing it on purpose but having someone narrate me is very flattering,” Woriwed hums.

Woriwed snaps more impatiently, and Epon fumbles with the box until he clumsily drops it in Woriwed’s hands.

“Too cowardly to talk _and_ clumsy? It looks like I have a double threat in my hands,” Woriwed sneers.

Woriwed steps into another room with the box. Oz crosses their arms indignantly.

“T-That was so unnecessary! Elise are you alright?” They ask.

“When haven’t I been?” Elise drawls.

“You handled that extremely well,” Virgil tells Elise.

Elise smiles. “Thank you. I know.”

“If he hadn’t taken that ridiculous box just now I would’ve gotten you to storm out of here with me. He couldn’t just be petty, he had to be unoriginally boring and petty,” Liam says. “I haven’t interacted with someone rich that likes to toy with people for fun in years. I forgot how overplayed they can be.”

“I wanted to say something but I just couldn't come up with any words,” Oz apologizes. “He was just so unashamed. I’m sorry Elise.”

“It’s fine Oz.” Elise stretches and yawns. “We did what we needed, let’s just go.”

Woriwed walks back in and holds the box out to Epon. “Here you go.”

“The box is for you,” Epon says.

Woriwed shakes his head. “No, you were supposed to deliver it to me. No one said I’d keep it.”

Woriwed forces it into Epon’s hands before he can protest again, and literally begins to shove him out the fucking door. Liam and Virgil reopen their umbrellas, because fuck it, who cares about bad luck when good luck lands us fuckshit encounters like this, and follow them outside. The rest of us trail behind, and I can’t help but sulk that Woriwed didn’t instigate enough physically to fuck his shit up.

“I’d say it’s a shame we have to leave your company so soon but that would be a lie,” Liam mocks.

“I don't know Liam, I’m rather envious of Woriwed. If I had eight different eyes to watch him walk away I’d be too delighted to see straight,” Elise adds on.

Woriwed rolls his eyes, and begins to shove the rest of us out.

“Thank you for helping us get out of your lovely home as quickly as possible,” Liam says as Woriwed’s hands meet his back.

“We really don’t want to be around when the Home Owner’s Association drops by to complain about the trash you drag out of bed each morning,” Elise roasts.

Liam’s smirk stretches across his entire face. “I love it when you’re like this.”

Shit, I want a Liam compliment too. “WHY DON’T YOU REVERT INTO SPERM AND CRAWL BACK INTO YOUR DAD’S BALLS?”

Woriwed flinches, his face displaying surprise and then genuine annoyance for the first time since we’ve met him. He sputters for a second, trying to find a comeback, and gives up when he realizes anything he comes up with after floundering will sound stupid, before slamming the door in our faces.

Elise and Liam look at me wide eyed, gigantic smiles stretching over both of their faces. They don’t say anything as they start walking after Epon, but their eyes both flash with unrestrained admiration and barely suppressed laughter.

“That seems like a good omen,” Virgil says.

Suddenly full of energy, I grab Oz’s hand, and smash a victorious kiss against their knuckles. “It sure as fuck does!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one came a little late guys.


	21. They Call It A Crush Because That’s The Way Your Heart Feels - Virgil de Lioncourt

I’ve never considered myself a superstitious man. The world is full of werewolves, demons, and mermaids, but beyond acknowledging the occult population at large, I’ve never been anxious about opening umbrellas inside or spotting a black cat on the sidewalk. Good luck charms have never come off as particularly interesting unless I know they’re enchanted by an actual witch, and if I were to break a mirror I would clean it up without panicking about the next seven years. If something mystic is well established or viewable, obviously it’s real. Abnormal things just happening for no reason? That’s usually just paranoia. 

But this is too ridiculous to not be some sort of cosmos-fueled retribution. Not a result of directly insulting a god or breaking a genie’s lamp, but some sort of random force that’s decided to fuck with me on a whim. The timing is too stupid for it not to be.

Man fucks up with his friend and brother like a damn clown. Man panics for a month trying to figure out how he’s going to even begin to make up for it. When he finally sees his brother again he actually thinks his brother won’t get mad for half a second before he gets ripped apart. He barely manages to get a second chance. He manages to get his brother to not hate him again, and for a second things are looking up. The friend is coming over. Has he finally gotten it together? Can he salvage this?

Man talks to the friend for half a second and realizes he’s developed a crush on her.

_ She literally hates me right now, how the Hell did I do this to myself? Did something about feeling like shit turn me on? And I a masochist now? _ I ask myself. 

I drag my hand over my face._ No, this can’t be my fault. I’ve messed up enough already to know what screwing things up for myself feels like. It has to be the cosmos. Go back to the constellations hating me for no reason. _

If I’m honest with myself, it’s not really accurate to say that my crush is masochistic. Sure, it’s extremely stupid. Knowing it doesn’t have a chance of happening, and carrying it while being reminded Elise doesn’t trust me at all right now doesn’t feel great. But the way Elise smiled back towards Damien, struggling not to snicker, felt like a hit of morphine without the risk of addiction. And everytime I focus on something else long enough for my subconscious to creep up on me, the fantasies of her lounging around the house, waiting for me to come out of my room to rag on my bed head, or sitting at a café and being delighted by insignificant details I’d miss on my own, start filling my thoughts and make my entire body relax. 

And Elise is so, so pretty. Not pretty like a supermodel, and I don’t mean that as some sort of neg. Supermodels are thin and tall with sharp cheekbones. Elise’s face is oval, with a cute round nose and full lips. Her kinky afro looks thick and soft. There’s a small, adorable gap in her two front teeth, and the way she does her makeup almost looks like it’s painted on instead of just applied. She’s shaded the area under her eyes to be brighter than what’s needed to cover up bags, and when paired with the faint application of blush over her cheeks she almost looks like a doll.

_ When did this happen? _I search my memory for a particular moment. I remember realizing how much I’d missed Elise at the party, then thinking about her and my brother when trying to get Liam to talk to me. Then there was the excitement in seeing her again in Spain, and the conversation next to the kitchen where I realized I’m in a dark comedy. 

“Virgil are you alright?” Oz interrupts my silent panic.

“Huh?” I grunt.

“You were brooding De Lioncourt,” Elise clarifies. “The sun hasn’t started to set yet so you’re kind of fucking up your dramatic timing. We’re very worried.”

_ At least I’m not being obvious about it. _That feels like a miracle in it of itself. It seems impossible that I’ve been freaking out since yesterday and no one’s noticed it but I’m not going to complain.

“Barnabitch Collins is probably just grumpy that I got Duarte’s dumbass friend to throw a fit and he didn’t,” Damien says.

“I wouldn’t call it a fit,” Liam disagrees.

“You! I! You thought his face was fucking hilarious, don’t lie!” Damien sputters.

Liam smirks teasingly. “I’m not saying it wasn’t funny. I’m just saying it wasn't a fit.”

“I do think a fit technically involves more noise,” Elise agrees.

“Unbelievable!” Damien protests.

Oz pats his wrist. “I think it was pretty great Boss.”

“Oh no one is denying that,” Liam taunts, playfully condescending.

“I don’t want your ‘pretty great’ consolation prize. I demand the title of Shit Fit Starter that I deserve!” Damien slaps the back of one of his palms into the other. “I don’t know if Elise said an incantation wrong and accidentally teleported you two’s brains into a swamp but that was definitely a fit.”

“I know you’re joking hun but there’s no way I could teleport our brains into a swamp. I mean I can whip up an intention on the spot, but there’s no way to physically manifest it and I have nothing on me that can break my skin. I’m amazing but I’m not a goddess. Though I understand appearances can be deceiving,” she drawls.

“Why would you need something to break your skin?” I speak up. “Are you talking about bleeding?”

Elise yawns. “Don’t worry De Lioncourt I’m just talking about a pin prick. When it comes to natural magic there are three elements to basic spellcraft. There’s the intention, or your goal. So let’s say teleporting brains. Then there’s the physical manifestation, like two voodoo dolls meant to represent brains and then jars meant to represent moving them from one location to the next. Then there’s fuel, which can be about everything from just focusing on it to channeling the power of a god, but I usually just use my own blood.”

“Unholy shit that’s fucking metal!” Damien declares.

“It’s not as fast as just firing a bolt of energy out of my hand, which is why I usually get stuff ready beforehand,” Elise says.

“You told Virgil and I that,” Oz reminds her. “Back on the train? Remember?”

Elise frowns, “I forgot. My bad.”

Damien scowls. “I’m still pissed that I missed out on everything that happened on that stupid ass train because I let someone get the jump on me. The next time shit like that happens I’m drawing first blood.”

“I’d rather we skip something like that happening again altogether,” Oz protests.

“Based on what Elise told me the things you all get into seem too chaotic to prevent or cause on purpose one way or another,” Liam says.

Elise turns to me, a smirk on her face, and even as I force my thoughts to stay casual I still find myself glancing at the curve of her lips.

“What about you De Lioncourt? Based on your performance during our last escapade, I’m guessing we can cast your ballot for ‘yay’ on having another brush with death? Adrenaline seemed to suit you,” she declares.

I hum noncommittally as I look over at Epon. I know everyone else isn’t going to scrutinize me for the thrill I get from danger, but the centaur is still practically a stranger. I doubt with everything on his mind that he’ll care either, but scoping out other people when my thrill seeking comes up is a habit.

The frustrated expression he aims at the box is the closest he’s gotten to looking angry on this trip. After Woriwed embarrassed him, I figured that Epon just isn’t one to actually get riled up besides the irritation he’s expressed at Damien. But the crease in between his eyebrows and the way he’s baring his teeth can’t be read as anything else but fury. He’s definitely not paying attention.

_ But I am. _I think. Elise has turned her attention back to everyone else, and they’re busy bantering with each other. The conversation moves more smoothly than it has in an while; the temptation to jump in and have a nice, long conversation with Liam like we did at the estate but without the heaviness is strong. 

Epon is acting in a way I’ve never seen before though, and ignoring information about acquaintances I have to spend time with just isn’t in my nature.

The glower on his face intensifies as his thumb presses under and violently slips against the box’s lid. His hand shakes as he applies more and more pressure each time, but the box holds firm, so his hand takes the brunt of the force and ends up jerking out into the air. The way his nostrils start to flair remind me of when I made the mistake of standing behind a Shire horse in England and got bucked into a barn.

His persistence pays off eventually, and the lid opens with an ugly pop, the metal hinges warping. I can’t see what’s inside, and Epon’s befuddled face doesn’t give me any hints. It feels like I’ve been watching him for too long without notice for my luck to last much longer, so I turn my attention back towards the rest of the group. Half a second later I can sense his gaze sweeping over the group, checking to see if anyone saw him, and I can’t help but be begrudgingly thankful for father’s training.

I start to ruminate on what Epon’s actions could mean, before it hits me that something about silently thinking about them on my own feels wrong.

_ Isn’t most of the stress I’m dealing with now because I took too long thinking and not enough time actually acting? I should tell the others. _

I wait until the formation of the group starts naturally shifting as we continue to walk. Once Epon’s ended up near the front, I tap on the two people closets to me: Damien and Elise.

Elise flinches, and thoughts of Epon’s behavior temporarily leep out the window.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask.

“Your fingertip didn’t decimate my clavicle this time. I just don’t like being touched,” she clarifies.

“Why?” I ask without thinking.

She raises her eyebrow, and I’m reminded of the way things are right now. Damien looks at me pityingly, which _ really _hammers it home. I remember him making a similar mistake with Liam earlier.

“What’s bothering you man?” He changes the subject back.

“Epon’s been acting odd. I noticed he was being pretty quiet, even for him. He struggled to break open the box for a good twenty minutes and when it finally broke, he didn’t seem to like what he found inside,” I tell them.

“Wasn’t pony boy shrieking about how important this stupid ass competition is to him like, five seconds ago? Why would he risk Duarte getting mad at him for breaking his bullshit?” Damien asks.

Elise squints as if she’s trying to recall something. “I think he said he made treasure hunts for a living at one point? If he’s actually able to make a living off of that, they must be pretty elaborate right? He probably knows how to do stuff like fix locks and manipulate boxes. Maybe he feels like he can make it look like nothing happened.”

“He still seems to admire Duarte to a considerable degree. It seems uncharacteristic that he would do something like this even if he thinks he can get away with it,” I say.

“Virgil’s right. Epon’s got a boner for teacher shoved waaay too far up his own ass for him to just do something because he thinks he can get away with it,” Damien agrees.

“Did you just admit De Lioncourt is right about something?” Elise mocks.

“Huh? I just said that Epon’s a goody fucking two shoes,” Damien lies with a smirk. “What the shit are you talking about?”

Elise rolls her eyes good naturedly before rubbing them, looking tired. “Thanks for telling us. I mean, neither of us know what the fuck this means but it’s nice you’re not just sitting on information anymore.”

“You know what that fucking is?” Damien does jazz hands. “Growth.”

A part of me glows at hearing praise from the people I care about, but I keep the smile I shoot at Damien and Elise small and mild. “Thank you.”

“It’s about time someone besides Oz and I make some fucking personal progress,” Damien brags.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“We moved in together at the beginning of October,” he explains.

“Haven’t you two only been together for about three months?” I remember.

“Yeah, so?” Damien crosses his arms defensively.

“Time doesn’t work the same way for horndogs. If Damien doesn’t hit relationship milestones at three times the speed of light he starts gaslighting himself into thinking he’s celibate,” Elise jokes. 

“If something feels right you just fucking do it!” Damien defends. “Who gives a shit about what’s normal?”

Oz and Liam, who’ve noticed that we’ve crowded together, interrupt. 

“Do you guys want to stop to eat before we call the woman who is supposed to pick us up?” Oz asks. 

“I know a place that cooks very raw steaks if you ask. Bloody,” Liam adds, looking pointedly at me.

“I don’t feel like I need to feed yet, but I could eat,” I say.

“This place better go in the other direction too. I like my shit with ash,” Damien demands.

“Does this place have normal food or are Oz and I going to stand by and watch you three indulge in food fetishes?” Elise monotones.

“Don’t worry Elise,” Oz assures her. “If they don’t we can just dip out and find a cafe.”

“Thank the gods.”

* * *

  
When it’s time to go back to Duarte’s property, we call the number for chauffeuring he gave us and are picked up in a big truck instead of a limo. I don’t understand the change until I see Epon open the tailgate and hop in the back. We met up on the way to Woriwed’s instead of leaving together, so I’ve never had to think about the logistics of him riding in a vehicle before. Damien elbows me in the ribs, a smirk on his face, and even though I don’t join him in his silent teasing, I can’t deny that seeing Epon proudly lounge in the back like it’s some sort of chaise while we actually get inside the truck is funny.

There’s less room than there was in the limo, but it’s not nearly as awkward. Liam eventually starts talking about his love for over analyzing movies as Elise takes a brief nap, and I split my attention between trying to wrap my head around his fascinatingly intricate theories over Disney Channel specials and the way Elise’s eyelashes brush against her cheeks as she sleeps.

Oz lends Epon a hand getting out the back when we finally arrive. Besides using their arm to get down, Epon basically acts like Oz isn’t there. They don’t seem all that bothered but Damien shoots a dirty look at the back of the centaur’s head. Epon’s focus is on the box, which he almost has looking normal again. With another tweak of the hinges, they look completely normal again. He must’ve been working on it on the drive over.

Liam sighs dramatically. “Finally, today is almost over. I want to draw all the curtains closed in the sun room back at the estate and take a nap.”

Elise yawns. “You should’ve passed out with me. We could’ve made it a party.”

Liam scoffs. “If I did that then who would’ve told Virgil my convoluted theory about the secret Christ imagery in ‘The Thirteenth Year’?”

“I still don’t get why you like doing this if you admit you’re looking too much into it and making it up,” I admit.

“Looking for the imagery directors put in films on purpose is boring and overdone. Trying to string together meaningless details to create something that’s two steps away from an actual conspiracy is how to be actually subversive,” Liam declares.

“I like how much into it you are,” I say.

“You should see him with Nickelodeon specials. It’s like the feral energy from a wine mom refined into the body of a cocaine addict,” Elise promises.

Oz politely knocks as Damien yells at the door.

“HEY WE’RE BACK! LET US IN!” He demands.

No one answers. A couple minutes pass and the two try to get someone to come to the door again. No luck.

“Do you think something is wrong?” Oz asks, hushed.

“They could be in other rooms in the house. Floribunda seemed happy to embrace the default aesthetic of every other nymph on Instagram that grows flower crowns on her head so she’s probably in the bathroom adjusting them in the mirror or sunbathing. Ophidian seemed desperate for socialization so he’s probably talking someone’s ear off as they do whatever business they need around the house, and Passerine seemed pretty dedicated to not socializing so they’re probably squatting somewhere any number of things that definitely won’t end in them stopping to answer the door anytime soon,” Liam judges.

Oz looks at him with wide eyes. “I think your judgmentalness might be so comprehensive that it loops around to being a superpower.”

“I don’t really think you’re in a place to judge someone else for not socializing. If I didn’t know you were a vampire I’d assume you were a bizarre bow tie troll that likes living under bridges and only emerges to act like a hipster every two weeks,” Elise snarks.

“You can’t judge me for struggling to connect with strangers I’ve known for less than 24 hours,” Liam huffs.

“If everyone else is really busy we should call,” I say.

“I already called Duarte directly in the truck five times. I assumed his phone was out of battery or he was taking a nap, but if no one is answering the door we might just have to stand here for a while,” Oz says.

Damien snorts. “Yeah that’s not fucking happening.”

He backs up before rushing forward, leaping off his feet and side kicking the front door so hard it goes flying off its hinges.

“Mr. LaVey!” Epon sputters.

Elise cackles in delight. “Holy fuck man!”

If anyone else says anything I don’t hear it, my hackles immediately raising when I realize there’s something seriously wrong:

“It’s too quiet.”

“Yeah, because none of these dickhats bothered being by the door even though they knew we were coming back,” Damien replies.

“No, it’s not that. You know when you enter a large house and you can’t really hear what other people are doing. But when it’s completely empty, you can hear the faint hum of the air conditioner or the creaks of the floorboards from the house settling?” I try to explain.

Liam frowns, straightening his back in realization. “You’re right I can hear that too.”

“Is this the train again?” Elise’s dry voice twinges with poorly hidden anxiety. “This feels like the train.”

Oz wrings their hands together. “I hope not.”

Damien’s eyes flash. “I’m not getting dropped this time!”

“Everyone calm down,” I order. “We don’t know if it’s that serious yet.”

My heart starts to thrum a little faster, adrenaline slowly spreading through my body. I remind myself to keep a tight leash on it. Keeping my umbrella over my head I twirl it in my fist, but before I can finish my next thought Epon shoves through us all.

“_ Please _,” he huffs. “Considering how everyone’s treated you so far, they’re probably hiding to spring a surprise party on you. I’m going to find Epon so I can hand this off and go to bed. This entire day was a huge headache.”

He veers towards the kitchen as Oz cautiously steps inside, and glances in the other direction. 

“I’m not going to stomp around until I at least know what’s actually going on. The floors are less creaky in this direction; I’m going to slink around over here until I get a better grasp of what’s up.”

They disappear off to the left.

“Wow,” Elise groans. “It literally took us two seconds to split up. Scooby Doo eat your heart out.”

“Going with Ozzie,” Damien declares, running after them.

“I guess that leaves us with horse boy,” Elise sighs.

She ambles after Epon, Liam naturally follows, and as much as I care about Damien and Oz there’s really no contest between them and the brother I’m still trying to patch things up with and the woman I’ve stupidly become infatuated with.

“You know it’s ridiculous to assume that the people here are going to throw something as benign as a party for us when we’ve only been here for what barely constitutes as two days,” Liam says as we start walking through rooms.

“All everyone’s been doing is talking to you, focusing on you,” Epon argues.

“Please, I can’t be farther from Mr. Wonderful. Everything you’re rambling about is just because we happen to know Duarte,” Liam dismisses.

“That’s not what Woriwed said,” Epon says.

Elise’s hand curls around my wrist to get my attention, and I let the urge to shift it into my palm pass unsatisfied.

“Epon kind of sounds more like someone giving a villain monologue when you pair it with the stuff from the box you told Damien and I about,” she murmurs. 

I narrow my eyes, suddenly bothered by how Liam is closer to Epon than us. “You’re right.”

As we pass through another room I reach for my brother, hooking my finger in the collar of his shirt as I try to gently nudge him closer.

“Liam,” I start in a low voice.

I do this as we turn a corner, which I suppose gives Epon more of a chance of seeing us out of the corner of his eye, because his head whips around and focuses on me accusingly almost immediately.

“What are you doing? Why—”

Red explodes out the back of Epon’s head mid sentence. His body crumples onto the floor. Elise shouts and the loose hook I have on Liam’s shirt turns into a balled fist as I yank him towards me. I quickly realize from the lack of blood gathering on the floor and the sudden semi-transparent air that Epon has been shot with something other than a bullet; a sort of scarlet cloud is filling up the hallway from where something I can’t quite make out is impaled through his skin.

Squinting, I make out a slim silhouette, and the cloud starts to dissipate enough to realize it’s Passerine with a slim looking gun held up to their face. My desire to shove Elise and Liam behind me is cut off by Passerine’s brisk order.

“None of you move unless you want to see the gun with actual bullets instead of darts. I’m giving you a warning but I won’t hesitate,” they command.

“What do you think you’re doing Passerine?” I growl.

“Getting rid of my red herring. Get it?” The air person’s neck feathers puff up proudly. “Birds? Red herring?”

“A red herring is a fish,” my brother corrects.

“I’m talking about misleading you, you idiot,” Passerine insults. 

“I know, but you also put an emphasis on bird as if you were using wordplay to talk about the literary device _ and _ yourself, but the later doesn’t work because a red herring is not a bird,” Liam insists.

“I’m pretty sure he’s right,” Elise adds.

Passerine flushes. “Birds eat red herrings.”

“That’s kind of a stretch,” Elise murmurs to Liam.

“Shut up!” Passerine shouts. “Gods, Epon might be whiny but he’s so right about you two a—”

A blast of light from Elise’s bag sends Passerine flying to the other end of the hall. Before they can even fully hit the floor Damien pounces on them from an opened side door and automatically starts pummeling their face.

“Were you just distracting them?” I ask Liam and Elise.

“I mean I was,” Elise says.

“I just hated how terrible their pun was,” Liam admits.

We rush forward towards Damien, despite how obvious it is that he doesn’t need help figuring out how to beat someone up. Within seconds their tussle shifts to Passerine just trying to survive Damien’s onslaught, before they’re able to find an opening and shove him back with the butt of the gun. I start to dive in before I’m whacked to the side, falling back against a wall panel, having my feet swept from under me as it flips upwards against my back and dumps me on the other side.

As soon as I get my bearings I pound my fist against the wall but it holds steady. Apparently the way out isn’t the same as the way in.

“Liam, Elise, Damien can you hear me?” I roar.

No one answers. I can’t hear any of the scuffling outside. _ Shit, how thick are these walls? _

I turn around, squinting against the dark for some sort of way out through the passage. The walls grind against my sides as I frantically look around. Whoever made this clearly never expected someone my size to be in here.

As the minutes pass and I continue to move forward while pressing the walls, hoping to activate something, my imagination starts running more and more wild. Elise’s head getting blasted open by the gun Passerine claimed to have. Liam’s being run through with a makeshift stake. The adrenaline I put a cap on earlier strains against its leash, but instead of being fueled by excitement my body tenses with anxiety. It feels like there’s a cold block of ice in the pit of my stomach, and if I don’t act fast enough the numbness will spread to the rest of my body and I’ll be left staring at the body of one of my loved ones.

I try to flex my body within the tight confines of the wall and scowl. There really isn’t a lot of room to move in here. I’ll be lucky if I can use one of my hands to attack Passerine when I see them again.

I run my tongue over my fangs, letting them extend past my lips. _ I’ve got other options. _

My ear involuntarily starts to twitch, and I freeze when they pick up on the faintest of shuffling. The cold dread in my stomach turns into cool fury.

_ If you’ve touched either of them I’m going to beat your ass. _

A part of one of the walls starts to move and a figure appears. I bare my fangs as I tilt to the side to grab at them with my fist.

“Virgil!” My brother shouts in alarm, shielding his face.

My body stutters before I surge forward, ready to smother him in the closest thing I can manage to a hug in here.

The end of a familiar gun slides past my brother’s face and stops inches in front of mine. “Stop. No sudden movements.”

My nostrils flare as I spot Passerine behind Liam, one hand confidently cocking their weapon and the other holding Elise’s wrist in such a tight grip it’s turning the dark skin around it pale. There’s too much at risk to ignore Passerine’s orders not to try anything but that doesn’t keep me from curling my lip and hissing.

They flinch. I scan them over and see that Damien didn’t hold back at all. One of Passerine’s eyes is already swollen shut, their face is covered in brushes, and there are small streams of blood on their forehead from him ripping some of Passerine’s head feathers out.

“I’m just about finished with this group. You’re lucky I don’t finish you off and leave you in here,” they threaten.

“Don’t look at me if they unload. I heard people shit themselves when they die and I’d like to try and retain some dignity post being killed by a chicken,” Elise says.

She tries to keep the uninterested tone her droning voice has always carried but it’s clear she’s nervous. In a flash, Passerine loosens his grip enough to slide the butt of the gun back and slam it against her forehead before quickly sliding it back to place next to Liam’s temple. I hear her try to smother a whimper and remind myself to stay calm.

“Shut up. I could leave you to die down here, where it’s inhospitable and fallow,” Passerine says.

“You’re just angry because her wordplay is better than yours,” Liam taunts.

Passerine scowls. “Just keep looking at your brother. No one’s pulling out a deus ex machina vampiric trance.”

“You know how to trance?” I ask.

“For a couple of years now, yes,” he confirms.

I meet Elise’s eyes, trying to silently ask the witch if she has something similar up her sleeve. She shakes her head, though I can’t tell if she doesn’t or if she thinks it’s too dangerous with Passerine in such close quarters. Her bag is gone.

Happy to be proven wrong, I pay rapt attention when she starts to talk again before I feel my stomach drop.

“Let them go and take me,” she says.

“Excuse me?” I protest.

“Elise now is not the time to lose your wits,” Liam joins me.

She acts like we aren’t here. “You’re not going to be able to control three people forever. I don’t know why you cornered all of us but you have a better chance of controlling one hostage instead of three. I know how hard you tried to separate Liam and I from everyone else before getting us in here but Liam is going to make eye contact with you eventually and De Lioncourt’s arms make him look like he could pop you like a zit the second he gets them around your neck.”

_ “Elise!” _I thunder, trying not to panic as I see a thoughtful look pass over Passerine’s face.

A minute passes. Then five. Passerine finally hums assuredly.

“All right. Gentlemen, close your eyes and count to sixty,” they order.

I’ve always thought the phrase “my sword thirsts for blood” was a little corny but damn it if my fangs didn’t suddenly itch with the urge to rip Passerine’s throat out.

“One,” Liam starts, palms over his eyelids.

I look at him incredulously. His voice stays even, calm.

“There’s not a way out of this right now Virgil. Do as he says. Take things one step at a time. Listen to me,” Liam tells me.

Passerine doesn’t seem to be concerned by the implications of Liam’s words. They just look at me expectantly.

Closing my eyes feels so _ wrong _ that when I do it I don’t even feel like I’m in my own body anymore. The reality where I just let Elise walk away feels so wrong and impossible.

“Two,” I add to Liam.

I can barely make out the sound of shifting as Liam and I slowly get closer and closer to sixty. By the time we’re on fifteen it’s dead silent, and when it’s suddenly safe to open our eyes on sixty my mind starts to race. How quickly did it take them to leave this part of the passages? How long had we just been standing there alone with each other? How far was Elise?

“I don’t know what happened to Damien and Oz,” Liam immediately says.

_ “What?” _ Three of my friends are unaccounted for. I’m going to lose my mind.

“We could try and go back to check on them. Or we could try to catch up to Elise wherever Passerine is taking her in this tunnel system. It’s just . . .”

Liam looks at his hands. 

“I just can’t imagine charging after one or the other without thinking about it first. It feels like . . . it feels like I’d be choosing who is more important to me, which is impossible. I know things have been strained lately but that doesn’t mean I’m fine with something happening that I can’t take back. We can think of a strategy, figure out who would be smarter to go after in order to rescue whoever’s next. But we have to figure out who that’s going to be,” he says.

_He’s_ _right. _I think. 

But even if it’s purely tactical, choosing who to go after first feels just as impossible as letting Elise walk away. 

“Shit,” I mutter, before I real back my foot as hard as I can and slam it against the wall. The stone bricks groan in protest, but don’t give. “Shit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao that moment when you say that something is a good omen and things are looking up and then your friend gets kidnapped into an ancient system of hidden passageways to her possible death. Like and subscribe if you agree.


	22. I Think The Fuck Not You Trick Ass Bitch - Liam de Lioncourt

I don’t have a soft spot for any cliches to begin with, but the one where a friend sacrifices themselves before being marched to death’s door _ especially _? Unacceptable. I won’t tolerate it.

My actual feelings are a little less confident than my thoughts, and Virgil certainly isn’t helping.

Saying he’s emotionless wouldn’t be correct, but emotional doesn’t exactly feel accurate either. At least not in public. About an hour ago, I was sure the extent of his anger was the chilly, controlled fury inspired by Woriwed’s tragically cliche personality.

Truly raising his voice? I can’t recall him ever doing it outside of the party at the end of October a while back. I’m not scared, but it would be a lie to say his usual guarded, commanding presence wouldn’t be appreciated right now.

“Stop panicking,” I say.

“I’m not panicking,” Virgil argues. 

“I didn’t know you suddenly decided to make pummeling rocks a hobby,” I retort.

“Liam I understand irony and sarcasm is your thing but you can’t seriously be making cracks right now,” he says.

“Well I can’t exactly think about how we’re going to proceed until you decide to think with me,” I reply.

My voice comes out collected, if not stressed. My feelings, on the other hand, feel bizarrely frozen. There’s a spike of terror that never left my body the second I figured out what Elise was doing; these tunnels seem as intricate as they are vast, and there’s a chance that regardless of if she survived or not I still may never see her again. Having her possibly disappear after knowing her, after what happened at Spooky High, is a reality I just can’t move on and accept, so my heart is still racing as if it literally happened half a second ago.

_ I’m pretty sure I used to be more accustomed to chaos like this. Damien and I used to be constantly stalked by a monster slayer and that was just a normal Tuesday. _I think.

_ Damien. _I feel a lump in my throat. 

I don’t regret drawing boundaries and saying he, Oz, and Virgil were going to have to work hard to earn Elise and I’s trust back. They crossed a line and asking them to prove themselves was completely reasonable. But if that reconciliation never comes because they die, I don’t know how I’d pull myself together again. Images start flashing through my head.

Miranda’s eyes welling with tears because she thinks she’ll die as nothing, a princess of no particular note. The assurances from everyone that she’d only been in the hospital for two days and that her symptoms were mild, that she was overreacting and everything would be fine. The way she turned to look at me, meeting my eyes with a stare I’d seen before in people who just seemed to know their time was up, they just _ felt it _, even if everything seemed fine.

I fist my shirt where my lungs are. I can feel myself starting to wheeze. I try to take a deep breath and distract myself before I can get worked up, but I can already feel the wave of grief coming. I stumble and bump against the wall.

“Liam?” Virgil moves closer to me and rests his hand on my shoulder.

“All my friends,” I grit my teeth, refusing to cry. 

He furrows his brow. “What?”

“All my friends are _ dead_. Miranda died choking on her own breath and Scott couldn’t even understand what was happening to him. Vera went out screaming, knowing she was a legend in the making. She _ couldn’t _ die young, she was _ Vera Oberlin, _but she did and now Damien and Oz are going with them too, fuck.” 

Fat, hot tears start rolling down my face. The spike of terror from before is turning into a giant stake. A painful pressure is building up in my chest as my mouth twists into a grimace. There are too many memories and they’re trying to play out all at once.

“There were so many caskets. I had to put the same tux on _ so _ many times. Three different graves in one month but there might as well been four because gods Polly completely disappeared of the face of the Earth and now Damienisgoingintothegroundwiththemallmyfriendsaregonefuckfuckfuck.” My words start to tune together.

“Liam you’re shaking,” Virgil breathes.

“There’s no chance of having to put up with his insanity in chat rooms anymore, or getting wrapped up in his bullshit on the weekends,” I start to gasp around the growing lump in my throat. “There’s no salvaging anything from what took everyone. I can’t even keep _ one _ person I knew alive.”

Virgil uses his grasp on my shoulder to yank me close into a tight one armed hug, the closest he can get to a full embrace in these close quarters. I automatically bite down on my tongue, hoping that holding my breath will choke out my sobbing, because if I start smearing snot onto my little brother’s clothes I’ll be too mortified not to die before whatever my incompetence allows to get Damien. My body jerks in quick succession as it fights my attempt to swallow my sobs.

“Liam you have to know none of that was your fault. And you’re not going to lose anyone else. We’re going to figure this out. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed you were feeling okay. You’re going to be fine, everyone else is going to be fine,” he assured me.

Words shoot from my mouth like vomit. “I wasn’t sure what Passerine would do if they panicked or continued to get angry here. I could tell he was already attached to Elise’s stupid idea and nothing good could come out if rejecting it. So the best I could think of was letting Elise walk away. I told myself we’d catch up to her but how can I even do that when I’m like this —”

“I think the shock is setting in,” Virgil softly theorizes. “You’re suddenly thinking of the past and everything going on right now. It’s not an assessment of your character.”

His voice is back to the deep, commanding presence I know. I feel his fingers reach up towards my head and pull out the band keeping my hair up. He scratches my scalp for me in a move that's involuntarily relaxing as it is bizarre.

“What are you doing?” I sputter as my shoulders relax.

“Mother used to do this to us whenever we had nightmares. Is it working?” He asks.

“I suppose.” I sniff. “When you say whenever we had nightmares, do you mean on the two occasions we went to the kitchen because we thought water might help, and she stumbled over to us smelling like wine before proceeding to bawl all over our clothes?”

“I mean at least the hair part was pleasant,” Virgil hums.

I can feel the painful pressure in my chest start fading, leaving behind a faint ache. “I just wish I managed to keep an eye on the fight in the hallway. After you disappeared things got even more chaotic. Things happened so quickly I could barely process them and then Passerine was shoving me into a wall panel.”

“We can put everything to rights right now.” He releases me from the hug so he can offer me his hand. 

“What are you doing?” I croak.

“Offering to hold your hand,” he clarified.

“We’re grown men Virgil,” I say.

“So? You’re all about ignoring conventions aren’t you? Who cares?” He entices.

I place my hand in his. It feels too weird to make me feel any better, but the gesture is nice. 

“Gods I forgot how big your hands are. If you were doing this with Elise her’s would completely disappear in yours,” I muse. 

Virgil coughs and starts looking at the passage walls. “Right, so . . . What are we going to do?”

We stand in silence. Like before, I feel frozen. Weighing my friends safety just isn’t a thing I know how to start doing. This scene won’t play.

“I,” Virgil pauses, his voice strangled. “It makes more objective sense to go after Damien and Oz.”

“Explain.” I know the anger that rises up at him is irrational. It’s not as if I wouldn’t be angry if he chose the other option, and we do ultimately have to make a decision.

“We have more information on Elise to go on. We know what general vicinity she is in, we know for the time being she’s technically safe . . .” Virgil glares in the direction Passerine disappeared in. “And we know there’s a chance she had a plan when she offered herself up. We have absolutely nothing on Damien and Oz. They could be locked in a trunk right now for all we know. Besides, if they’re okay it’ll give us more people to go after Passerine with.”

“Damien is a powerhouse,” I say.

“Anyone who can see Passerine’s face can figure that out, but they still managed to get away from him and we don’t know what they did in the process of escaping.” He turns his hawkish gaze to me. “Are you sure you can’t remember anything else about what happened?”

“Passerine pinned me at one point and I almost got them in a trance, but then they brained me with something across the face and by the time I got the stars out of my eyes I was in here,” I admit.

Virgil’s voice goes deeper than the deepest pit in Hell. “I’m going to kill them.”

“Let’s make sure they haven’t killed the others first,” I say without thinking. As soon as I process the words the pressure in my chest starts to come back.

“Don’t say that.” 

Virgil squeezes my hand and for the first time having our fingers laced together doesn’t feel so weird. 

We begin to feel up the walls, looking for some sort of panel or switch to get back in the main part of the house. The passages are illuminated by plain candles in even planter holders attached to the wall. It takes five more minutes of fumbling around while Virgil moves his body the most he can in this narrow space before I realize the obvious.

“Oh for gods sakes!” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“What?” Virgil asks.

I grab one of the candle holders and yank it downwards, groaning as it smoothly tilts, clicks, and a giant chunk of the wall to my left opens to a parkour room.

“Honestly, I’ve encountered so many cliches today already I’m embarrassed it took me this long to piece together,” I gripe.

Virgil steps out and stretches. “I’m just glad I can actually move again.”

Wordlessly, we charge towards the door. 

“It’s probably more strategic to look for them quietly in case any of the missing guests is helping Passerine but honestly I don’t have the patience,” Virgil admits.

“DAMIEN!” I start us off. “ OZ! CAN YOU HEAR US?”

“PLEASE, ANSWER US IF YOU CAN!” Virgil shouts.

“DAMIEN?”

“OZ?”

We make our ways through hallways, tossing doors open in hopes of seeing our friends' faces. Virgil’s fists are poised in case he needs to strike, and I try to blink as little as possible every time I take in a new room, ready to put someone in a trance at a moment’s notice. We tear through at least three more lounges, four bedrooms, and a bunch of spaces packed with enough stuff that I assume they’re big storage closets before Virgil shouts and slams open a cracked door.

“You guys!” I exclaim, relieved.

Oz and Damien look up from a leather trunk; the latter cracking it open with his hands as he props his foot against the side for leverage, the former pulling a drowsy looking Ophidian out by the hands. There are a series of straps wrapping around the trunk that seem like they just need to be removed in order to open the trunk normally, but based on the slashes they’re covered in Oz and Damien have already tried that.

I rush towards Damien and wrap my arms around him into what I want to be a bone crushing hug, but half a second in I’m reminded he’s the only other person in the group besides Virgil who can say they’re built like a brick wall without lying. I wince at the hardness of his body and let go.

“Gods, you’re all sharp edges Damien,” I gripe.

Damien’s eyes are wide as saucers. He absentmindedly lets go of the edge of the trunk and Ophidian immediately starts wheezing. He beats down on the side of the trunk as it’s lid closes down on him, but Damien seems to have completely forgotten about him.

“Did you just . . . Try to hug me?” He asks.

“Well I sure didn’t randomly decide to invent an art form where I throw myself on people,” I reply. “We were worried about you.”

“You’re okay Oz?” Virgil checks in. “Need help?”

Oz nods and Virgil moves to take Damien’s place, cracking the lid enough that Oz can finish dragging Ophidian out. The naga flops onto the floor, wheezing, before rolling into his back and gazing at me hazily.

“David Gandy?” Ophidian slurs, dazed.

_ “Perish,” _I order him.

“Thank you Virgil,” Oz says.

“You, I,” Damien swallows hard, unable to finish his sentence.

“Boss are you tearing up?” Oz asks.

“No!” Damien’s face contorts as his eyes shine with wetness. “Liam’s clothes are triggering my allergies or something. It’s probably made of some weirdass hipster tweed.”

I’m so tempted to take the easy way out and let Damien’s embarrassment brush my gesture under the rug. I’m not exactly great at talking about feelings either. But after breaking down over him possibly being dead, I don’t want to risk Damien not knowing how much I care about his well being.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what could’ve happened to you two when Passerine shoved me into a passageway. I couldn’t stop imagining you dead, thinking that you passed on before we had a chance to reconcile. Elise and I didn’t put you at a distance without a reason, but that chance at reconciliation is really something I want to succeed. I hope you know I’m not trying to dangle anything in front of you like a carrot. I don’t know what I would do if anyone else . . .” I go quiet.

I can see the muscles in Damien’s neck strain as he swallows. Everyone else was already quiet as we talked, but the silence now is pointedly mute as the end of my sentence lingers, unspoken but known.

Damien fights his vulnerability for another second before he breaks and my body suddenly feels like it’s in a trash compactor. Damien wraps his arms around my waist so tightly that the comforting pats on the back I decided to give him once it was obvious he wanted a hug quickly turn into desperate attempts to tap out. It feels like he’s stress testing the hardiness of my rib cage.

“Oz,” I choke out. “What about you? Are you sure you’re alright?” 

Virgil watches them intently as they answer, looking for any signs of bluffing he might’ve missed when he asked Oz the same thing.

“I’m perfectly fine. We’ve just been trying to find Passerine’s hiding places one we figured out what they were doing,” Oz says.

“Hiding places?” Virgil repeats.

“Yeah, wait till you fucking hear this,” Damien starts. He lets me go, and I make a sound like a strangled pair of bagpipes. “After he bitched his way out of the fight by running away, we checked out Epon because like, free dead horse head for any future Godfather Halloween costumes am I right? But the prancing pussy wasn’t dead!”

“The dart Passerine fired at the back of his head had some sort of anesthetic. I thought I saw blood come out the back of his head when he was shot, but once we got a closer look I realized it was smoke. It’s a hunting technique. You take out the leader because they’re the strongest, and while the rest are panicking because they’re starting to realize they’re in danger, the red smoke makes it harder to see and get away. It’s most used in extreme heard hunting,” Oz explains.

“I can’t believe they fucking thought Epon was leading us but I would absolutely ditch him at the drop of a fucking hat, smoke or not,” Damien derides. “The only reason I didn’t say fuck it the minute he fell apart like a shitty stringless puppet is because Birdbrain kept talking to us.”

“Well technically he was temporarily our boss,” Oz points out. “We were supposed to follow him around and do whatever he needed help with.”

“Seeing as you brought up game,” Virgil steers us back on track. “I’m guessing Passerine trussed everyone else and hid them around the house in trucks?”

I look at Ophidian and realize that there’s rope tightly wound around his arms. He’s managed to tear the part meant to keep his wrists pressed close together, but the knots meant to keep the rope on his arms themselves are still there. 

“I can’t really confirm anything for sure ― I was by myself when they got me ― but they did have a lot of rope on them when I started passing out. Way more than they would need to tie up one person and way more than what’s on me now,” he says. “So I think that’s a pretty good guess.”

Chin in hand, Virgil’s expression becomes deeply thoughtful. “But why? I think we can also assume that they planned on doing the same thing to us. But they attacked us in a group, which obviously would’ve made it easier for us to fight pack. Which we did.”

“Pehaps they got too caught up in the moment? They seemed to deeply dislike us, enough to the point that they basically stopped to give us an oh so original short lived monologue. After an afternoon of successfully getting everyone else, their cockiness combined with their hatred led them to act without thought. Typical,” I say.

“I can’t say Floribunda, Epon, Duarte, or I are the fighting type. I know I didn’t put up much of a challenge,” Ophidian admits. “It was probably a nice surprise for Passerine.”

“What that conclusion doesn’t address, however, is how Passerine got that low opinion of us in the first place. But I believe I can enlighten us.” I clear my throat. “Isn’t that right Epon?”

I turn my head towards the centaur tucked away in the corner of the room, trying to make himself look as small as possible.

Damien flinches. “Shit, I forgot you were here. I picked your unconscious ass off the floor, hauled you around while looking for Passerine, heard Ophidian struggling, dumped you on the ground and you really just let us forget you while we were trying to get him out of that dumbass trunk.”

“Save your excuses!” I exclaim as Epon opens his mouth to defend himself. “Passerine said and I quote, ‘Gods, Epon might be whiny but he’s so right about you two a—’. Making an _ educated _ guess, while we might not have talked to Passerine, you’ve been spending enough time talking with them about us that they think they can judge us accurately. Furthermore, the fact that they took your commentary to heart means that while he may not consider you a friend, your relationship is at the very least established enough that he trusts what you say. Two competitors teaming up to terrorize and destroy the competition before taking a prize by force, how unoriginal.”

Rage passes over Damien and my brother’s face at my conclusion. I’ve seen Damien go ballistic before, so the sharp teeth in his mouth suddenly taking up half of his face as he bares them isn’t a surprise. My brother’s anger on the other hand, is like a flash in a pan, taking over his face in one of the most intense expressions I’ve ever seen before shrinking into his eyes, and turning the vampiric slits we both share icy.

“Epon?” Oz asks. “Is this true, are you helping them?”

Epon, who rightfully looks like he’s about to piss himself, frantically starts to string words together.

“Absolutely not! I had no idea they were doing this! I-I knee they were going to c-cheat, and I might’ve given them some money ―”

Tail lashing like an angry cat, Damien bounds over to Epon and slugs him across the face. I see a fat was of spit fly out of Epon’s mouth as his head jerks to the side. I gag. Oz gasps beside me.

“Listen! Listen!” Epon waves his hands in front of his face as Damien grabs the collar of the centaur’s shirt and prepares a second blow. “All I knew was that Passerine planned on messing with everyone else. I swear I had no idea it was going to attack people.”

“You’d let Passerine cheat their way to a hundred million dollars, but you want us to think you care about the lives of the people here? Clarify your relationship,” Virgil coldly demands.

“I . . .” For a moment, Epon stops looking terrified and seems incredibly embarrassed. “I thought we were good friends. Or at least they were important to me. A couple of years ago, Señor Duarte and I were good friends. He initially made it seem like he wanted someone to give him some input on a new business endeavor targeting a younger target market, but once we started having meetings his interest seemed half hearted at best and it became clear he just wanted to talk to someone. I don’t know if he’s all that good at making friends.”

I think about Woriwed. _ He’s not wrong. _

“We enjoyed each other’s company for about a year before Floribunda came along, then Ophidian came soon after,” he continues. “Suddenly we barely got to have the conversations over tea I had gotten used to.”

“Wait,” Ophidian interrupts, his voice still raspy from struggling to breathe. “Are you saying you got jealous?”

Epon turns bright red. “Someone going from a friend to a friendly acquaintance isn’t exactly pleasant you know! I thought Passerine was going to do the same but they found time to converse with me! He didn’t mock my selectiveness or call me a “fussy hoe” unlike some people!”

I knowingly look at Damien. “When did that happen? We only split up a couple of hours ago and I never heard you say that.”

Damien smirks. “I find the time.”

“So when Passerine asked for money to “even” the competition, I didn’t . . . ask . . . questions,” he finishes, eyes glued to the floor.

“Well seeing as he called you whiny to our faces we can safely guess they were lying to you,” I drawl.

Epon looks like he might be about to cry, but I find it hard to pity him when Elise could be struggling to stay alive right now.

“If someone close to me for enough money to buy knockout darts and rope I still think I’d find it in myself to ask a few questions,” Virgil lectures.

I actually sincerely doubt that. It seems like Virgil was willing to do just about anything to see me again, and the submissive way he let me talk to him makes it clear that as long as he cares about someone he’ll let them do just about anything. But now doesn’t seem to be the time to “um actually” my brother. 

“I might’ve been focused enough on everything going on to truly question them,” Epon admits. “I-I just felt like I was falling further and further away from Señor Duarte ―”

“Well you’re going to have to start focusing now, because we need details so we can figure out what exactly Passerine bought besides rope and darts,” Virgil demands.

“If I were to make a guess leaning a little on the judgemental side,” I start.

“No offense Liam but that’s all you do,” Oz interjects.

I flush. “Yes, well, moving on. Ophidian said that they were just subdued with the gun and rope, and Passerine didn’t seem like they were trying to change it up when they were going after us and Epon. If we were to follow the pattern Passerine has established so far, and I don’t see why we wouldn’t, Passerine hardly seems like the type to be creative enough to come up with something new, I think what we’ve seen is all they have. It would explain why they were so insistent on us doing everything they said in the passageway. They only have one weapon and if we messed around enough we might’ve figured it out.”

“Pssh, now that we all fucking know what’s going on, we can handle that, easy fucking peasy,” Damien says confidently.

“V-Virgil,” Oz says. “Didn’t you say yesterday that back in the old days the tunnels were used for guarding things or transporting people on the run? Do you think the reason Passerine’s first thought was to dive into the passages to escape was because they’re trying to use them to get away from the estate to avoid being caught?”

“Obviously Oz.” I can't help but roll my eyes.

“I mean _ far _ away,” Oz clarifies. “Like, if runaways were able to get away using them they must span incredibly far. If the distance was as big as the country we’d probably hear about it already, but what if Passerine is able to go as far as the next town over? The next city over?”

Virgil’s eyes go wide as his brow furrows and he presses a hand over his mouth. “I think you’re right Oz. Dammit.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Ophidian cuts in. “But I didn’t have access to air in there? I could tell whatever amount that was trapped in the trunk with me was running out when you came and got me out. So we should probably try and find the others before, you know . . . “

Damien looks like he’s getting ready to say the others are on their fucking own, but Oz makes a distressed sound and looks at all of us pleadingly. After being so worried about Damien and them I can’t imagine saying no to them. Damien clearly isn’t going to either. Oz focuses on Virgil. My brother fidgets, torn between going after Elise and showing mercy to the trapped guests hidden all over the manor.

“They get thirty minutes tops. Then Elise is our top priority. No more, no less.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this took so long. I kept trying to shoehorn the end into this chapter, but I realized there’s no way it would fit in a way that seemed natural so I’m splitting it in two.


	23. Talk Shit Get Hit - Damien LaVey

Tracking down all all the chodes stupid enough to get captured takes way too much fucking time. Yeah we don’t go over Virgil’s limit, but spending any time not looking for fucking Passerine feels like a waste. These people better be grateful for fucking Ozzie. It’s clear they’ve been scared ever since the bullshit Passerine is trying to pull came to light, but they’d handled their anxiety like a champ. So much so that without being blinded by their fear, they felt enough sympathy to want to help everyone out. I guess we're just wired differently, because as soon as Virgil explained what he meant by prioritizing Elise, I couldn’t give half of a donkey’s shit about everyone else, lack of fear be damned.

_ I can’t believe she fucking traded herself as a hostage. _Shit if someone else did it, or this was all far in the past and I knew Elise was fine, I’d probably think it was fucking metal. Virgil said she didn’t have her bag with her, and considering everything she told us about how she performs magic, that’s bad fucking news.

Floribunda shakily takes the glass of water Ozzie offers her, a blanket draped over her shoulders.

“Bless you,” she thanks.

“If you really want to fucking thank us you should tell us everything you know about this stupidass house and all it’s passageways,” I say.

“Damien give her a minute,” Oz cuts in softly.

Floribunda shuffles over and finds a seat in the room all this fuckery started in. Ophidian has flopped down by the fireplace, the cushions that used to be spread throughout the room gathered around them in a plush sort of nest. Duarte is on the same settee Ophidian was when we first met him, head in his hands as Virgil drills him for information. And Epon made himself scarce the minute it was revealed to everyone else what he helped happen. Good fucking riddance.

“Think harder,” Virgil coldly commands.

“I’m sorry principito, but there are just too many passages that could let someone get miles away from here for me to figure out which one Passerine is using without you giving me more information. Did they mention any landmarks? A beach? A cabin? I’m afraid I can’t help with just “one that would let them get as far away as fast as possible”. That barely narrows it down,” Duarte says.

Virgil’s jaw tightens. “I . . . I suppose I can’t fault you for that. Answers always become clearer the more information you have.”

“I think we’re asking the wrong question for someone like Passerine.” Liam speaks up, glancing at his nails. “The real question is why they’re choosing to run now.”

“Because they’re a scared pussyass little bitch that’s trying to get away before I can get my hands on his fucking throat,” I growl.

“Wrong,” Liam corrects.

“Huh?” 

“Passerine tried to corner us, failed, and then went off with Elise, but what was their plan before that? If they planned on hiding us away like everyone else, what was their next step supposed to be? Epon said Passerine told him they wanted to mess with the competition, but that can’t be true. They tied up Duarte too, so any strategy that involved subtly messing and sabotaging everyone so Duarte would like them best is out the window. They attacked him. The jig is up. If they were okay with revealing themselves like that then they must’ve always planned to run. It doesn’t take a savant to know Duarte would call the police if he got loose, or that the authorities would be after them the second someone decided to check up on the estate because Duarte suddenly ‘disappeared’,” Liam explains. 

I feel like a lightbulb is blinking on above my head. “Holy shit you’re right!”

“There has to be something else. Something that Passerine thought was worth going after, needed everyone to be subdued for, got their hands on, and is now trying to escape with,” Liam says.

“That’s not quite right,” Virgil adds. “The order is wrong. It’s like you said. Passerine’s plan failed. They never got past subduing everyone, so they never got to taking what they wanted once everyone was safely out of the way.”

“So what? This asshole fucking lies and earns Epon’s trust for months just to ditch their plan at the last second? I know everything went to shit, but that’s a whole lot of fucking waiting to not get what you want!” I exclaim.

The frustration on Virgil's face suddenly melts away. “You’re right. It is a lot of work. And Passerine definitely didn’t seem like they had given up when they were threatening Liam, Elise, and I. The second they got the upper hand, they headed further into the passages. So if they never planned on trying to win Duarte’s fortune, they haven’t gotten what they wanted yet, but they were fine going deeper into the passages, what they actually want might’ve been under the estate the entire time.”

“They’re running now because they still have to take what they came here for,” Liam says.

“If they’re looking for something in the passages before making their grand escape, that does help narrow it down,” Duarte declares.

He stands up from the settee with a groan, dusting off his pants and heading for the shelves.

“I’ve told you that one of the Duarte’s that came before me had something of a sadistic streak. While this estate does have a history of helping people on the run, when she inherited everything, she expressed a much bigger interest in the business the family made out of guarding precious things by hiding them in the complex tunnel system indefinitely, or until the original owner came to reclaim them. I afraid I can’t say that means she turned away people who thought we were still helping people out at the time.”

“Shit. The old ‘Why Don’t You Come Inside And Check My Oven’ gambit?” I guess.

“Check My Oven gambit?” Duarte repeats, confused.

“You know like in Hansel and Gretel when the witch says she has a special treat for them? They ask where the fuck it is, and she says it’s in the oven. So they go over to check it and as soon as they’re close enough she throws them inside and votes the shit out of them?” I clarify.

Ozzie thumbs their chin. “ I don’t quite remember it ending that way Boss.”

“If you’re trying to say that she would let them in and tell them a certain tunnel would lead them away before slowly watching them get lost, panic, and eventually die, then yes?” Duarte says, sounding unsure.

“Yeah man, that is what I mean! You got it!” I cheer.

“Good gods Damien,” Liam mutters under his breath.

I don’t know why Liam’s being dramatic, because Duarte continues on like it’s nothing. “After these people unfortunately passed, it’s said that she would track down their remains and . . . loot them. She supposedly hid the sum of all of those possessions in some sort of chamber among the passages. Rumors among my family say that the estimated value of everything she filched is uncalcuable.”

It’s not like anyone asked her opinion but useless-ass Floribunda gags. “That’s foul Duarte. I don’t remember you ever telling us about your house sitting on a sadistic trophy room.”

“I haven’t exactly been in a hurry to see if the horrifying stories about the lost property of the dead are true,” Duarte says tiredly. “But if Passerine is searching for something instead of just solely making their escape, they’re probably after it.”

He moves over to the bookcase, wringing his hands. “Some of my more morbidly curious ancestors starts wondering where the chamber might be, and started drawing up theoretical maps for finding it through the passages. It might take a bit to find one. I don’t do as much reading nowadays. I’m embarrassed to say these shelves are mostly for show now; I can hardly remember where everything is.”

“I-I might have alphabetized a-and introduced a numerical system to organize the books when Epon I was taking notes on what Epon expected of us yesterday. I’m used to multitasking while doing secretarial work, s-so I figured why not?” Oz reveals.

I grab the front of Oz’s belt, swing them around until they’re in front of me, and dip them towards the floor, smashing our lips together in a kiss.

“You’re so fucking smart and nerdy Oz, thank fuck.” I grin, still leaning over them after our lips have parted.

“I, uh, well, I.” Oz stutters.

“Wonderful Damien, you broke Oz before they could show us their system,” Liam criticizes.

“I can still, um, just get it for, um,” Oz struggles.

I pull them to their feet and they stumble over to Duarte’s side. After genuinely looking dizzy and disoriented for two whole minutes, they reach for a leather book bigger then their head. Duarte and Oz grunt as they both support its weight, only for Virgil to take it from their grasps with one hand and set it down on a coffee table.

Oz clears their throat and starts to talk as they open the book, but only more babbling comes out. Something in Virgil’s eyes clicks and he interrupts.

“The map actually works by recording everywhere the room is _ not _ . The family seems to have already mapped out the passages that were most frequently used, but there were a lot of passages besides that they didn’t know a lot about and didn’t care to research until recently. Since Duarte, our Duarte, says he hasn’t been interested in finding the rooms, it was probably whoever was right before him. You can see more recent pen strokes done in red on top of more ancient sketchings adding mapped passages. So these question marks in the middle of these gaps are possible room locations, because logically any place there aren’t passages are places the room could be. _ If _it exists.”

“Typical. Some rich family has a mystery of a lifetime under their feet and they only look into it when it has the possibility of entertaining them,” Liam huffs.

“Aren’t you rich man?” I ask. 

A weird feeling starts to set in. I don’t know why it’s asking Liam a basic ass question triggers it, but I realize that after two days of mostly-awkward conversation, we’re actually talking casually.

_ Nothing like trying to make sure your fucking friend doesn’t die to make awkwardness go away I guess. _

“Yes,” Liam admits. “But I don’t have a pseudo labyrinth and bunch of dead people’s things lying around in the basement.”

“Well . . .” Virgil starts to protest.

“The estate is yours Virgil. And calling the mansion a labyrinth just because it’s big, and saying it’s full or dead people’s things because of a bunch of gaudy things we inherited is kind of a stretch,” Liam argues.

“I wasn’t so much referring to some of the things that have been passed down as I was the mausoleum,” Virgil states.

I don’t fucking say anything, because I know a little about a bitchin’ thing called “time and place”, but I feel like I’m about to lose my mind. First there was Duarte’s underground passages, which are turning out to be a pain in the ass but whatever. Now I’m hearing the De Lioncourt basically have a DEATH BUILDING on site? 

_ Fuck, what if we’re close to actually making some progress on this whole fucked up friend situation only for everyone to start thinking I . . . suck? _

I’d die before I ever let Virgil know I might think he’s a _ little _ doper than me. But I’ve been feeling hopeful ever since we got back from pussyass Woriwed’s, _ especially _ since I noticed how natural talking feels now five seconds ago. What if everything goes back to normal and then I fuck it up by being a lameass?

I feel like I’m wearing the wrong pair of pants. Damien fucking LaVey doesn’t feel unconfident like this. Except the party where I admitted to Virgil that I was feeling kind of deflated because charging ahead semi destroyed two of my friendships. Then, I don’t fucking know, maybe a bit before that when we were still trying to figure out how to get in touch with Oz and Liam after we shat the bed. Also during Ozzie and I’s fight?

_ Holy fuck I’m turning into a pussy. _I start to internally panic.

“Damien? What? What do you think is wrong with the plan?”

“Huh?” I glance up, pulled out of my own head by Virgil’s voice.

His eyes flash with cold disapproval. “I said it was best if we start where Passerine forced Liam and Elise into the tunnels and retrace their steps to where Passerine walked off with Elise. I assumed you had something to add based off the look on your face.”

_ I’m getting distracted from Elise. _I think, which makes me feel even shittier. I’m already assuming we’d get back to being friends but shit, she might just die. The person who helped Oz and I get together might just be gone soon.

“No, I’m just worried,” I say. Technically not a lie.

“Oh.” Virgil’s gaze softens just a bit. “Well the sooner we get going the sooner you won’t have to be.”

He closes the book and puts it back on the shelf, before looking expectantly at Liam. His brother strides out of the room, Virgil right on his heels. Oz settles by my side and takes my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. I casually drape my tail around their waist and murmur in their ear the second Duarte and his dorks are out of sight.

“I’m actually just worried everyone won’t like me anymore,” I say.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re very lovable Boss,” Oz insists.

My face feels like it’s burning, which is metal, but the dumb pink blush that comes with it is not, so I slap my hand over my nose and hope the De Lioncourts just the ink I have shitty sinus problems.

Liam leads us back to the hallways of the brawl. He goes towards the wall opposite of the one I’m pretty sure Virgil disappeared into. He gropes the wallpaper for a second but Virgil beats him to finding the fucking switch, pounding his fist into the wall with teeth rattling force; there’s the expected bitchin’ pounding noise, but also a hallow sort of sound just a bit to his right. He pushes against it and the false panel in the wall swings forward like a door. He urges Liam inside and quickly follows, stopping when looks back to see if we’re following and his eyes pass over something behind a tall plant.

“Is that Elise’s bag?” He asks.

Ozzie goes to check, grunts as they pull the pot towards them, and makes a triumphant noise as they pull a familiar smushed bag from behind it.

“Shit, Passerine probably hid it behind here so we couldn’t try to give it back if we went after them,” I say.

Virgil’s face is unreadable. “See anything useful?”

Oz hands it to me and I pop it open. There are a few things bundled in cloth that turn out to be glass jars filled with powder, twine, coaster size geode plates and liquid chalk markers. Then there’s normal shit like an inhaler, wallet, a key card, and some mace.

“There’s fucking mace? As for the rest I have no idea.” I hand it over.

Virgil turns around and follows his brother, combing through the bag at the same time. Oz and I end up needing to tilt our bodies to keep holding hands inside the narrow passage. Virgil is worse off, having to do the same thing just to move forward at a steady pace. We walk down the passage, and make a left, before stopping in front of an opening that has a left and right turn.

Liam points left. “That’s where we ran into Virgil before Passerine took Elise and went in the opposite direction. So we go right.”

“Before that,” Virgil says. “Oz, take this mace. I can’t figure out how to use anything else in here either Damien. But we’ll be fine on our own and Liam can use his trance.”

I take it from Virgil and hand it to Oz. 

“Thank you!” They chirp.

We continue through the passages at a slow pace, turning when Virgil says to because of course he memorized the fucking map. It’s not boring though. Different turns that we walk past are hosts to gnarly looking doors, weirdass statues on the wall, and what I’m pretty sure at the final etchings of people who got lost and started to go mad. 

“I-Isn’t that the third ‘turn back’ we’ve seen?” Ozzie asks.

“Yes,” Virgil grunts.

“Heh heh, sick.” I grin.

“Are you sure we’re not lost?” Liam asks.

“Positive,” Virgil promises.

“He’s right. The handwriting on all of them has been completely different,” I agree.

Soon, the writing starts to look planned. Instead of messy, rushed scrawlings at tilted angles, neatly embossed glyphs the length of the wall start to appear.

“A puzzle must be coming up,” Virgil says. “These look like they were made with the passage, and I’m getting the same vibes I usually get in booby trapped temples. We’re also nearing a blank space on the map; if this is an area that might have the room it would make sense it has mechanics guarding it.”

“Do you think we’ll end up fighting a minotaur?” I ask.

“I think this is less of a labyrinth situation and more of a Indiana Jones scenario Boss.” Oz pats my hand.

“We better not come across a minotaur,” Liam hisses. “If we lose time catching up to Elise because some bovine has a fetish for running around underground and never going outside I’m going to lose my mind.”

Torn between wanting to fight a weirdo who moos and wanting Liam to stay in a good mood, I relax when the passage stops before the entrance to another. An image of the sun hangs above the door, and a rudimentary panel with the symbols we saw instead of numbers are embedded into the wall next to it. They’re laid out one after another horizontally in a line instead of stacked on top of each other.

“Should we just fucking start keysmashing?” I suggest.

“_ No _,” Virgil commands. “It might set off a trap. There’s an order to this and we can’t afford to mess it up. This is where one of the map’s blank spots started, which means Elise might be a little further past this point. We can’t risk messing this up when we’re this close.”

“I know the symbols are on the panel, but maybe it would help to write them down? That way we could scribble over them or try to rearrange them with arrows before actually trying to punch the code in,” Ozzie suggests.

“As much as I like the implication that you want to try writing things down without pen and paper, in practice I don’t think it’ll be as viable as it is avante garde,” Liam snarks.

“I got this.” 

Flicking my tail, I take the end and start scratching into the ground under our feet, which has transitioned from wood to rock and now finally sandy dirt the deeper we’ve been in here. I focus on the memory of the symbols, silently threatening to hurl myself off a cliff if I fuck it up. Gods knows if we spend a second too long trying to figure out this bullshit Elise will be dead.

  
  


“Is this the order they appeared?” Virgil grills.

“Positive,” I say.

“Thanks for labeling them?” Liam sounds confused.

“What? Did you not fucking want me too?” I ask.

“I think he’s just surprised you knew what the alchemical signs stood for,” Ozzie clarifies.

_ Shit, I know I’m not the smartest person here but everyone and their dad knows the basic elemental signs right? It’s not like everyone does fucking magic but you either go to a school like Spooky Middleschool and learn it when you’re like eight or your some fucking mortal who had a Parry Hotter Adventures At Pigpimples phase. _

“Right then. Patterns so far: the sun, the elements, alchemy, four . . .” Virgil starts to list off.

A phobia pops out the top of Oz’s head, scratching its chin, and I resist the urge to whap it like a whack-a-mole. 

“Celestial bodies?” Ozzie adds.

Liam looks frustrated. “Maybe you could also say fundamental elements? Not elements like alchemical elements, but elements as in things that are the basis for other things, like how the Sun is the basis for life on Earth and the elements are the basises for other concepts in alchemy? You already said most of my guesses, Virgil.”

_ Fuck, if they’re having trouble how am I supposed to come up with anything? _I think. 

Instead of going anywhere fucking helpful like an actual answer, my mind drifts towards someone who would be way better at coming up with one. Having to think with the promise of getting to be in the presence of a bunch of valuable bullshit?

“You know who would have this shit on lock?” I think aloud, not realizing how shitty I’m about to make myself feel before it’s a second too late. “Vera.”

Liam and Oz stiffen. The atmosphere immediately changes, and even though I’m pretty sure I’ve never specifically brought up her name, Virgil’s eyes flash with understanding. Maybe Liam told him all our old friends’ names at one point, maybe he just put it together. The only thing I care less about is the sudden impulse to fuck myself up with her memory, to rake myself over the coals for bringing up her name so casually — because it always feels disrespectful when it comes out of _my_ mouth for some reason — to tell myself I should’ve found some way to help her and everyone else even after I exhausted all avenues, because what else is being a prince of the infernal good for if I can’t figure out how to get the impossible after shaking a couple of hands and making a deal?

Yeah, don’t care about that twisted grief bullshit. I know my therapist is right when they say it’s just survivor’s guilt. And it’s just as easy to believe something as it is to fucking know it’s true. I don’t care, I super don’t fucking care. All it is, is a dumb insitinct. 

“Nevermind,” I try to change the subject. “I just, fuck I didn’t think that through, nevermind fucking ignore that.”

“No,” Liam says quietly. “You’re right. Maybe we should think more like V-Vera.”

My eyes lock on him. Liam looks incredibly uncomfortable, but he’s not breaking down. He glances at his brother’s hand. For a second I think he’s going to take it and hold hands with Virgil, but at the last second he wraps his arms around himself.

“Vera loved heists,” Liam begins. “If we compare the number of times she cracked a keypad code to us she’d beat us easily, even with Virgil on our side.”

“What was her first step?” Virgil asked. He sounds cautious, like he’s walking on glass. 

“Well most of them involved banks, so numbers,” Liam answers.

“There aren’t a lot of banks that don’t use numerical pads,” Oz says.

Virgil makes a sound of realization and leans to move his arm past his number. He quickly punches a pattern into the panel as the door slides open. 

“What the Hell?” _This_ _fucker just got reminded of the number one and immediately figured it out?_

“I thought of four before because of the sun’s usefulness in figuring out the four directions because it always sets in the west. Then I remembered it rises in the east. East to west, right to left, enter symbols on the pad as you’ve seen them from right to left. ‘Explains why the pad is in a line instead of a square,” Virgil explains.

Liam still looks uneasy. “Brilliant. Let’s move on.”

We all look at him expectantly. He’s in the front so we can’t do that until he does, but he stays in the exact same face.

The urge to beat myself up over Vera flares up again, feeling a little less stupid. “Liam I am _ so _ sorry.”

Liam’s body stutters, the result of him snapping back to reality, trying to loosen up and act normal for half a second before realizing it's too late and sagging.

“Don’t apologize Damien. Gods know I haven’t been able to be mad at you since I found out you and Oz were okay. I don’t think I have it in me anymore. At all,” Liam admits.

The shitty feelings that started to well up from Vera freeze, and as inappropriate as I know it is they immediately morph into the most intense feeling of hope and joy I’ve ever felt in my entire fucking life.

“When you say at all —”

“Yes Damien I forgive you. I know I should probably still be mad but I can’t bring myself to actually be, and if the only reason I’m distancing myself from you is because I’m forcing myself to pretend to be pissed out of some vague sense of what’s proper then clearly any valid reason to be skeptical of you has passed.”

I barrel forward to hug him, somehow completely fucking forgetting Virgil is between us. He grunt and falls forward through the doorway on top of Liam, who lets out a sound that’s between a geriatric accordion and a dying paper shredder. Oz haphazardly falls on top of me, their hand still grasped in mine, but their weight barely feels like anything at all.

“Shit, sorry! Fuck,” I stumble to my feet.

“Can you get your humongous bara tiddies off of me?” Liam wheezes from under Virgil.

Virgil rolls off of him, this new part of the tunnel having much more space than the last. Oz and I scramble to stand on our own without him under us anymore. Virgil stands and stretches, letting out a satisfied grunt when some of his cramped bones pop.

Liam doesn’t get up. He looks at my expecting face, lips moving without making any noise as he figures out what to say. Then his eyes start tearing up and I panic; it would be just my fucking luck that he decided to let my back in only the backpedal because he’s too worked up to get past what happens after “I forgive you”.

“You don’t have to say fucking anything!” I yell. “I’m just happy you want to be friends again.”

Liam cracks a smile, eyes red. “It’s derivative, but I’ve been getting more and more used to your company again since you flew over. And then it turned out you could’ve been dead, and all I could do was think of what it would be like to lose _ all _ of my friends. There was this idea of leaving things on a sour, ambiguous note. And then everything turned out to be fine; after the wave of relief finished crashing down all of my anxiety about being around you after everything that happened and my anger at what you did for the past few months had vanished.”

I feel something wet and hot run down my cheeks but I’m too fucking happy to care that they’re probably tears. Oz quickly wipes them up with their thumb.

“And I want to apologize to you Oz.” Liam adds.

Oz freezes. “Huh?”

“I think this whole time I’ve thought of all this drama being related to the death of my and Damien’s friends. But they were your friends too, and you lost Amira. You’re not exactly as outgoing as everyone else, so I think in my mind, at least when it came to dealing with everything after the pandemic, I might’ve subconsciously pushed you to the wayside as a side character. But you were there with us too, when the dust settled, and I pushed you away.”

“Thank you Liam.”

I don’t fuck up the hug this time. Oz, Liam, and I’d arms lace around each other neatly. I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a long fucking time. The group embrace goes on way too long, but it’s not like there are any fucking loser’s around to judge us so who cares?

“We have to keep going.”

Virgil’s voice interrupts us just as Oz starts to step back. I look at Virgil’s face, but I don’t see any jealousy. There’s definitely the desire to hug his brother, but more than that there’s a sort of formality I see in old people when they wait for everyone at the table to get their food before they eat. He doesn’t think it’s his place to join in. It’s not like he knew our friends. He really just interrupted because he’s worried about taking too much time.

“You’re right.” Liam clears his throat and steps back.

He crosses his arms, trying to look cool again. _ Yeah okay Draculoser, you definitely weren’t feeling emotion five seconds ago. _

Virgil takes point as we start to walk again. Even though we’re all worried over Elise, the air feels lighter. At least in the middle of all this bullshit _ something _ good happened

Despite traveling through an area that’s completely uncharted on the map, Virgil is confident. Or at least he’s not letting it show on his face if he’s freaking out. Virgil’s Resting Bitch Intense Face is a given considering how long I’ve known him. 

We turn a corner and Oz yelps. I grab their shoulder and start to shove them behind me before I spot what startled them and burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny!” Oz protests, embarrassed.

At the end of the passage from inside a new room, a carving of a face with huge, bulging eyes stares at something above the open doorframe. Though the face is so simple it’s a couple of details away from being a fucking emoji, the eyes are done with such a bizarre amount of detail that there are veins chiseled all over the grossass eyeballs.

“Distasteful, yet undeniably captivating,” Liam muses.

“Move forward very carefully, this could be a line of sight trap. If the carved pupils seem to move, yell and duck,” Virgil says.

It takes for fucking even to actually be in the room, moving at a snails pace. But as soon as we are, we’re swarmed with a shitton of junk and skeletons. Oz squeamishly nudges one out of the way with their foot so they can look at the picture frame length mirror it was resting against. Liam starts to float so his ankles aren’t shifting through the layer of old coins and loose jewelry on the floor. I glance around at different piles, wondering if I can spot anything dope like an ancient flamethrower.

_ Rolled up rugs leaning against each other, old alchemist shit like microscopes and textbooks, chests, side tables, instruments, dusty clothes, necklaces, come on not even a lighter? _

Virgil turns in the direction the face is looking and points above the doorframe of the room. Words are scrawled there.

“Show Me Only Wealth,” he reads.

“What? The stone face?” I ask.

“It has to be,” Oz says.

“How’s that going to show us where to go next? I know it’s a puzzle, but it’s not like the face has some sort of fucking laser or wiring to sense when something’s changed. It’s old as fuck. I got the panel thing because we were actually pressing shit and activating some hidden pulley or whatever, but how is just showing shit going to do anything?” I frown.

“There has to be some mechanism we can’t see, or perhaps magic,” Liam suggests.

“What we do know,” Virgil says. “Is that it’s talking about putting the items where the words are. Like Oz said, the only person it can be talking about is the face, and in order to “show” it anything we’d have to place things where it’s looking. That’s above the door.”

Without having to say anything else to each other, we split up and start gathering things. Virgil picks up a heavy ass looking set of dressers and sets them in front of the door so that anything stacked on top of them is in the line of sight of the carving. Liam starts dumping coins on top while Oz gathers up necklaces and some gaudy rings I didn’t notice before to add to the growing pile. I realize the dusty clothes are actually really expensive, but years of dust and grime have started to cover up their intricate designs. I while at them the best I can, revealing minute floral patterns, lace, silk linings and buttons with tiny details. I hand them off to Liam so he can place them with everything else. But when we’re done, nothing happens.

“M-Maybe it’s the dressers?” Oz guesses. “Since we’re just using them to prop everything else up maybe they don’t count and it’s throwing everything off?”

“I don’t see how else the puzzle would expect us to keep everything in the carving’s line of sight. It’s not like we can make it all hover on its own, and someone like me who can float can only hold so much,” Liam remarks.

“I don’t think it’s the dressers either. Maybe it didn’t mean wealth literally?” Virgil suggests.

Liam claps his hands together. “Of course! Who would ask for literal wealth when there’s knowledge all around us?”

“_What_.” I grunt. I don’t make it sound like I’m actually asking a question; I don’t doubt that Liam is going to be fucking pretentious I’m just making it clear that I’m dreading it. I stop for a second to look at my own feelings, and feel weirdly giddy that I’m able to go from being happy Liam is my friend again to being exasperated at him so quickly like old times.

“Look at everything among us. What stands out more? Some coins or jewels? Or textbooks, microscopes, runes, and other tools of traditional alchemists? The first scientists! Knowledge is the real wealth here. It’s a metaphor,” Liam says.

“Regular wealth does sound a bit too easy,” Oz adds.

“Hmm.” Virgil doesn’t look convinced, but he starts to hover, moving to take stuff from on top of the dressers.

I groan. “Gag me with a rusty ass chainsaw.”

I neatly fold the clothes once they are in my arms and toss them to the ground. Despite how corny Liam’s idea is, I really fucking hope it works. I start tossing textbooks on top of the cabinets. Liam is much more careful about putting microscopes and a bunch of other delicate ass looking instruments on top, while Oz passes an assortment of runes to Virgil so he can add them to the pile. We all take a step back and wait.

Fucking nothing.

“Erm,” Liam coughs awkwardly. “I think I spotted some shovels around here. Maybe it meant the wealth of hard . . . work?”

Ozzie looks miserable. “I don’t think the same concept is going to work a second time.”

“We’re all going to be fucking bones before we move past this bullshit aren’t we?” I growl.

Virgil takes his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “I wish Elise was here. She was brilliant when it came to piecing things together on the train.”

_ We really are fucking stuck. _I think. My jaw clenches and I turn to look at the stupidass carving, blood starting to boil. Our friend has been on her own long enough by now to be dead and cold, but we’re still fumbling like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. I stomp over to the ugly fucking face and reel my foot back.

“I show you the bottom of my boot motherfucker,” I hiss, kicking the carving in the eye with all my strength.

There’s a thud as my foot connects. The stupid eye doesn’t even crack. 

“Don’t break it Damien,” Virgil says.

“I wasn’t trying to break it _ dad _, I just needed to hit something,” I argue.

“I just can’t imagine what else it could be,” Liam fumbles. “It’s not literal, it’s not metaphorical, what else is there?”

“Maybe it’s not what it appears to be at all?” Virgil scratches his chin. “Elise said the simplest solution is often the most likely, so if it’s not the only two interpretations of what we think the answer is, showing objects of wealth, it has to be a different type of puzzle right?”

“Oh my gods.” Liam straightens, anguish written all over his face as his voice rises. “Oh my gods are you kidding me? This again? Again?”

“Are you okay Liam?” Oz asks.

Liam drags his hand down his face and floats up to the words above the door. He shoves all the shit off of the top of the dressers and haphazardly slaps his arms against the wall over ‘Show Me Only’ until the only word that can be seen is ‘Wealth’. The room gently shakes and a door carved into the wall to our right with lines that are so thin that it can only be seen when it’s moving, slides open.

“ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME RIGHT NOW?” I roar.

“It’s just like the candle switch I had to pull earlier,” Liam laments. “We’re in an overplayed Scooby Doo movie gods help us.”

“We did need to change where it was looking to wealth. We just didn’t need anything that wasn’t already there. I over thought it,” Virgil chides himself.

“Don’t beat yourself over this Virgil, this was ridiculous! A pun? Really?” I’m not sure who Liam’s ‘really’ is for, it’s not like the chuckle ticks that made this place can hear him.

“Liam, look! The other words!” Oz points.

Every other word but ‘Wealth’ has sunken back into the wall. I guess by pressing all the other words to only show ‘Wealth’ it activated some kind of pressure plate and that’s how the door knew to open. Something glints from the shelf the sunken plate makes.

Liam picks it up. I recognize the telltale traits in slow motion; the sharpass edge, a handle made for gripping, the sort of stabby elegance that can only be found in reality’s simplest, most beautiful weapon —

“A knife!” I yell. “Hell yeah, hand it over!”

Liam tosses it over to me, looking 100% fucking done. I run my thumbs over the blade and make out lines darting around in sharp angles and boxes like a labyrinth on a metal kiddie menu.

“Hey I think this is a fucking map!” I announce.

Everyone moves closer to me to figure out what I’m talking about. I eventually find the pattern of twists and turns we’ve already taken and land on a circle that must symbolize this room. I look where the new door is and sure enough, there’s an open notch on the knife showing an opening to another passage.

“Does it show where the room of possessions is?” Virgil asks.

“Are we sure this isn’t it?” Ozzie suggests. “I mean there’s a lot of old stuff in here.”

“If it was Passerine would be in here, wouldn’t they?” He dismisses.

“Nah, I can’t tell. This thing shows really basic shit like the direction of passages and bigger spaces that are supposed to be rooms, but there aren’t any labels.” I say.

Virgil grunts dismissively and turns away, walking towards the new door. I follow, eyes on the knife as I try to figure out what the small x in the passage it leads to is supposed to mean. Ozzie sticks close to me with Liam lagging behind. By the time I put two and two together and remember what you can pretty much bet on to always be in a fucking maze, I can already hear the faint, animalistic panting.

“What smells like poorly aged beef?” Liam’s lip curls.

“_Minotaur _.” Virgil and I realize.

He doesn’t even have the time to finish telling me to get back before I’m charging past him, knife brandished over my head. The shadows fall away to reveal a dark beast, and I'm so excited that before it can roar at me I’m burying the knife in its mouth. My speed turns my hand into a blur, and I’m stabbing it again and again, it’s flesh giving way under the cut of the knife like a wet sheath. Ribbons of blood swirl out around me, the rapid motion of my fingers interrupts the clean, straight streams that would’ve resulted from the half bovine’s wounds so that fluids cover the wall and floor in graceful arcs. It’s dead before it can even fucking threaten me, and the realization makes me stop.

“Wait, are you fucking kidding me? That was it?” I throw my hands in the air.

I hear sputtering. I look back at Virgil, who doesn’t look so much scared but completely fucking surprised. 

_ Oh yeah, he’s never seen me stab something before. _

“I can’t even. What. What did. What. Why did you. How.” He’s not even collected enough to make his questions sound like questions. 

_ Maybe this can be fucking salvaged. _“Surprised or scared Alucockhead?”

His usually collectedness immediately falls back into place. “Neither.”

“Yeah okay.”

He suddenly scowls. “Maybe you should be more focused on making sure Elise—”

“You guys I see her.”

We all turn towards Oz, who has walked past the minotaur to the end of the passage and is staring at something around the corner. They seem frozen in place, not sparing a glance our way. Virgil and I creep towards them, something unspoken keeping us from rushing towards a possibility that seems too true. So Liam beats us there.

I hear his breath catch and I don’t even have to look up first to just _ know _ what he’s seen. My body lunges forward as I race around the corner and my gaze meets Passerine’s — surprised and terrified like a fucking pussy, their arms forcing Elise’s behind their back. My fist connects with their jaw, Elise bursts from their arms, Virgil goes for their throat, and Liam dive bombs Elise with a sappy ass looking hug I’m going to be holding over his head until the day I die. But that all falls away when I hear Passerine wheeze, Virgil’s meaty hand wrapped around their throat. It’s quiet, and the realization of how alone we are with this fuckhead sinks in. My vision turns red.

“Pick a god and pray bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so you can guess by the length of this chapter that this update took forever because I got carried away AGAIN. The next few chapters are more just slice of life focused with character relationship growth so hopefully I won’t get off track AGAIN. I have more trainlike adventures planned but I might utilize time skips in them just so they don’t take as long to write, or something like that.


	24. I Thought I’d Drop By - Virgil de Lioncourt

Elise seems to be taking her kidnapping well. It feels odd thinking that, but this entire situation has been kind of a disaster so I’m pretty sure all bets are off. 

Curled up in one of Duarte’s armchairs with a fluffy blanket I felt way too excited about draping over her shoulders, she cradles a teacup from the kitchen. Delicate flowers made of china dance around the rim, but otherwise it’s fairly plain. She looks fascinated with it though, carrying the same easy-to-please, almost giddy energy I’ve seen before. Which is weird, because I swear she was being snarky earlier today.

_ People can have more than one personality trait. It’s not impossible for someone wry to be happy. _I think.

But the thought doesn’t sit right. It feels incomplete. I frown, pondering, before I realize it’s because I’ve seen what Elise looks like when she’s wry and happy. She’s teasing, and a less anxious. Right now she seems more energetic and expressive, with a huge smile stretched across her face.

_ Sometimes people can express the same emotion in different ways according to the context. _ I imagine a different possibility. _ They can be milder when it comes to their day to day satisfaction, and ecstatic when it’s a special occasion like their birthday. _

But that’s not right either. Elise isn’t acting “more happy” because something special is happening. She’s just casually enjoying something normal, unless china is a special interest for her, which I’m pretty sure it’s not. It doesn’t seem like “this is what happens when she’s really happy”. It seems more like Elise is a cheerful person who fawns over things and a sarcastic person that likes to make fun of things and that doesn’t quite make sense because it sounds like two different people.

Elise glances up, smiling at me, and my heart immediately starts to beat faster. “Something wrong?”

_ Gods, how am I already this whipped? _“No, I was just thinking.”

“About the police?” She asks. “Are you feeling rattled? This is kind of the second time we had to call them because someone was assaulting people, and that was only about five months ago.”

I immediately feel guilty. It would make much more sense to be thinking about the statement I gave to the police then trying to pick apart Elise’s behavior. It not like it’s hurting people, and as odd as I’m starting to realize it is, it’s not like I haven’t been fantasizing about that way she acts ― peppy _ and _pessimistic. It’s just that the former seems especially out of place after she just finished being rescued from a kidnapper. But I should be thinking about her wellbeing.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that. You’re the one who was being marched around and threatened for hours. How are you doing?” I ask.

“Better than I thought I would be,” she says. “I guess Damien’s energy is infectious.”

“Yes he does seem very hyped that he was able to ‘make up for being brained by that cum gargler on the Polass Express’,” I recall.

Elise makes a face. “I actually forgot he said it that way. I love Damien but sometimes he’s kind of gross.”

“You’re just realizing that,” I cut myself off. “Wait, did you say love?”

Confusion and jealously well up in me in unequal measure, the later feeling way more intense than I ever expected. Elise is supposed to be mad at us right now, did she somehow get a crush on Damien? When? _ Why? _

“I mean platonically,” she explains. “You know, like a friend?”

A tenseness in my shoulders I didn’t even notice before disappears, and a comforting warmth in my chest takes its place. “Oh. It’s nice that you’re still fond of us and consider us friends even though we’re still working on earning your trust back.”

Elise raises an eyebrow, and her mouth twists like she’s trying not to snort.

“What?” I ask.

“De Lioncourt, you and everyone basically saved me life. You haven’t thought that I might have forgiven you yet?” She questions.

A smile starts to creep onto my face. “You’ve forgiven us?” 

“Yes De Lioncourt, I’ve forgiven y’all,” she says.

Despite my best efforts, I immediately start grinning from ear to ear. Pure, unfiltered joy comes over me. There aren’t going to be any more awkward car rides, and Elise, Oz, Damien, and I can all start hanging out again. If things keep going well with Liam he might join us too. 

_ Things are going back to normal. No, better than normal. _ I think. _ All five of us can be together. _

“If I’m going to be honest though, I forgave you before you saved my life,” she admits. “It was in the wall passage with Passerine, after they had shoved me and Liam in. I hoped we’d all get out of it alive but I thought in the worst case scenario, I’d want Liam to have the chance to know his brother. And then I thought about why that was my first thought when someone was waving a gun around, and I realized that I at least forgave you enough to think that you were someone worth knowing. The life saving just sealed the deal.”

I struggle to stay collected, even as a huge wave of — I don’t know what to call it? Touchedness? — crashes over me. It’s hard to put words to the feeling as it nearly overwhelms me. All I can say is that the warmth in my chest grows to fill my entire body, and I have a huge urge to hug her.

_ She doesn’t like being touched. _I remember, ignoring the desire. 

“Elise,” I say softly. “You don’t know how much that means to me. I’ve wanted my brother back for so long. But don’t do that again, okay? Ever.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, pumpkin,” she replies.

I’m glad we’re the only ones in the room, because the desire to fully bask in this intimate moment and let myself tear up is clashing with years of habitual poker face. If father knew I was getting emotional and that people saw he’d reassemble himself from ash and throttle me. Not that I care, but being raised for years to stay collected doesn’t just disappear. I try to ignore the faint feeling that I’m doing something wrong. I want to enjoy the atmosphere as much as I can. 

Elise stops admiring the tea cup and drinks her tea as I drift over to Duarte’s bookshelf. I take a book and sit down, not even bothering to read the title as I crack it open. Only concerned with using it as an excuse to stay, I reread the same page for twenty minutes before we’re interrupted.

Liam drifts in with the box Duarte had been so insistent on Epon bringing to the manor from Woriwed’s place. If there’s a special reason Duarte let him have it now, Liam isn’t quick to bring it up. He sighs dramatically and sits down on a stool, his long legs making him look like the world’s most exasperated spider.

“I don’t know what’s more tiring, having to talk to the police for two hours or listening to Duarte’s blubbering,” he sighs.

“Duarte almost suffocated to death and found out that two people he knew for more than a year basically orchestrated the entire thing. Maybe you could cut him some slack,” I say halfheartedly. 

“I didn’t see you cutting him any slack when we were trying to find Elise,” he points out.

“Yes well now she’s here safe and sound,” I affirm.

“You’re not mad at all?” Elise asks. “I mean I get why logically, it’s not like this was his fault. But these past few hours have been pretty stressful. I figured you were at least annoyed.”

“I am honestly, but I can’t help but think about what this says about him and it’s . . . well, when you add how Woriwed acted along with Epon and Passerine, and how he thought this wouldn’t devolve into a competition, it doesn’t seem like Duarte’s a great judge of character or circumstance. But when I think back to when we were kids, that doesn’t match up with my memories of him at all. I can’t help but conclude that in his desperation to have people around him when his time runs out he let just about anyone in, and it almost ended up sending him to an even earlier grave.”

A silence hangs over the room. 

“ . . . Well that’s incredibly depressing,” Liam says.

Elise forces a laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed de Lioncourt, but your voice is so deep that whenever you say something gloomy it feels like some sort of dark premonition from a god.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make things awkward. Let’s talk about something else,” I suggest.

Liam perks up. “I wanted to tell you Elise that I was in the market the other day and I saw someone selling the Grecian Bottle puzzle.”

“Really? Did they have any other brain teasers?” Elise asks.

“Grecian Bottle puzzle?” I repeat, confused.

“It’s how we met,” Elise tells me. “I ran into Liam at my university’s library and helped him solve it.”

“Did someone say library?” 

Oz shuffles into the room, looking excited but completely worn out. They managed their anxiety so well during everything that went down that I actually forgot they struggled with it until they said they needed to lay down. They basically passed out for what had to be six hours if they’re just waking up.

_ Six hours. _I start doing the math.

“Sorry Oz. We haven’t discovered any new libraries or bookstores to check out, we were just reminiscing,” Elise says.

“Aw man,” Oz signs and rubs his eyes. Little phobias pop out of their shoulders and yawn.

“If you need to sleep more Oz no one’s going to judge you. I have chronic fatigue, I know how it is,” Elise suggests.

“It’s tomorrow morning,” I finish silently counting “Or just morning, since it’s no longer tomorrow. We’ve all been up so long we missed going to bed.”

Liam hums. “My adrenaline rush is just starting to wear off, I’m not surprised.”

Elise laughs. “Oz you didn’t even really take a nap break, you just went to sleep.”

Oz studies Elise’s face. I remember no one’s told them Elise has forgiven us yet, and with Elise talking so casually to them after all this time they hover by the door. Elise seems to read their mind.

“Oz how can I stay mad at you after all of this?” She clarifies.

Oz’s eyes light up and practically flies towards her. Sitting down in the chair next to her’s, they look ready to catch up on months of conversation until Liam clears his throat.

“I should probably tell you before I forget, Duarte told me to give you this.”

He gets up and drops the box onto her lap.

“Wait why?” Elise’s brow furrows.

“Open it and see,” Liam encourages.

“Ooh, mysterious,” she grins.

I walk up behind her and peer over her shoulder as she cracked the lid. Nestled atop a tiny velvet pillow is a scrap of paper with a question mark.

“Duarte sent all of us over to Woriwed’s so we could deliver some punctuation and then had it sent right back?” She asks.

“I’m pretty sure it’s shorthand Elise. Turn it over,” I suggest.

She does, and in a different set of handwriting there’s a fragmented reply: ‘the girl - I don’t need to see anyone else’.

“I don’t understand,” Elise admits.

I do. “I’m pretty sure Duarte’s just chosen you to inherit his estate.”

Elise chokes, eyes bulging out of her head. “_ What? _ Why?”

“Because Woriwed said to,” Liam and I conclude simultaneously.

“Woriwed hates me,” she argues.

“No, with this we know he was “testing” you,” Liam rolls his eyes. “Remember when we guessed he was playing with us? It had to be for this. Duarte told Woriwed we were coming and that he wanted his input on Epon, Woriwed messed with us for a while, and then he decided that whatever trait he thought Duarte’s heir needed could be found in you.”

“But we were just helping Epon.” She sounds like she’s starting to panic.

“And Woriwed said he was going to treat us like we were in the running anyway,” Oz reminds her. “Now that I think about it, it’s clear that he didn’t exactly like Epon all that much.”

“Do you really think he has that much influence over Duarte?” Elise asks. “That he could convince Duarte to just change who he considered?”

“He already approved of you because of me,” I point out. “And you’re the only girl Woriwed met before writing his answer. He can only be talking about you.”

Elise starts to slump in her seat. “But that couldn't have been the reason for Duarte to have us hand deliver a box. Couldn’t they have talked about everything on the phone?”

“It was just an excuse to get honest behavior out of Epon. If Duarte just told him that Woriwed was going to influence his final decision he might’ve acted differently,” I say. 

“Plus it does a good job at covering his ass. Considering what might’ve happened to you in the passages, giving you generations worth of money is a pretty good insurance policy against you taking him to court and sending him to jail,” Liam adds. “Duarte might think you’re a good person because you know Virgil, but it’s not like good people never sue.”

“None of this was Duarte’s fault,” she says.

“Other people who’ve been in situations like yours might beg to differ,” Liam finishes.

Elise rubs her arms, her smile long gone. She looks like she might be sick. I hate it.

“Why are you so upset?” I ask. “You won’t have to work for the rest of your life. You can do whatever you want to do. Be whoever you want to be.”

“I know you guys see inheriting a hundred million dollars as something that’s just really nice because you’re all loaded but I cannot emphasize enough how I am a normal person who hasn’t even come close to managing this amount of money before,” she points out.

“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to,” Oz replies.

“Of course I want to. I’d never have to worry about struggling to maintain a regular nine to five somewhere because of my brain —”

I frown. _ Elise is smart, what is she talking about? _

“ — but don’t you have to manage these things? You need to know how to invest so the holdings continue to grow, you need to decide on calculated costs like is it worth spend huge chunks of money _ here _ so this thing can retain its value or should it be spent over _ here _, and you have to not go crazy and spend it all in a year. How do I do that?” She panics. 

“I thought you’re going to business school,” Liam says.

“_That doesn’t mean I know how to invest at the same level as a generational millionaire Liam, _” she insists.

“Elise we’re obviously not going to leave you without any help. Duarte’s holdings have to come with their own advisors and financial managers, but you can also ask us if you need to,” I say. 

“If our people can’t pencil you in they can definitely recommend other people. Honestly I’m not surprised you’re worried,” Liam sniffs. “Considering everything that happened today there’s a nine in ten chance his trusted managers are axe murderers.

In place of putting my hand on her shoulder I let it rest on top of the seat of her chair. An invisible weight seems to fall from her and I order my face to stay passive.

A loud screeching of tires comes from outside, followed quickly by a slamming door.

“Oh,” Liam winces. “I might’ve told Damien and Oz I forgave them over the phone after I finished my first interview with the police. I didn’t know how much longer they would keep me and I didn’t want to put it off. I sounded like someone screamed, threw the phone at a wall, and then ran away?”

We all turn to look at Oz. They shrug sheepishly and rub the back of the neck.

“I had you on speaker phone and as soon as Boss figured out what you were trying to say, he grabbed it, threw it outside, said he would be back in a bit and picked it back up when he was running out?” Oz explains.

Liam pinches the bridge of his nose, but doesn’t actually look that annoyed. “Good gods what is this nonsense going to be.”

We listen to Damien’s hurried steps before he literally kicks the door down. 

“I’d say we probably have to fix that before Duarte comes back but I guess this is my house now?” Elise thinks aloud.

Damien pants for air in the doorway, a small mountain of gift baskets cradled in his arms. He makes a bee line for Liam and dumps them into his arms. My brother sputters.

“What the Hell is this?” 

“They’re gifts for you fuckass! I’ve been working on them ever since I wanted to fucking see you again. My therapist helped I guess,” he says.

Liam struggles to fish around through just one, the gift baskets all precariously balanced on top of the other. I move and put most of them on a coffee table.

“Knives and matches, my . . . favorite,” Liam drawls.

“You know you fucking love it.” Damien beams.

Liam digs deeper, and pulls out a postcard sized painting. His face flashes with surprise, and a soft smile grows across it.

“I guess I do,” he admits.

_ I might have to thank Damien. _ I think, wishing I had a camera. _ Where’d my phone go again? _

“Not to try and take the wind out of your . . . big announcement sails? But I wanted to tell you I forgive you too before I forget,” Elise intercuts.

Damien goes stock still and then rushes towards her. Elise tried to intercept him, holding out her hand to turn what was definitely going to be a violent hug into a slightly less violent handshake. Damien shakes her hand like he’s trying to make it come off, and something about the finality of everyone in the room being on the same page again puts me in an even better mood.

“We should celebrate,” I suggest. “This is the second time we’ve made it out of a deadly situation. We can treat it like a no-death anniversary.” 

“It would be nice to sit down somewhere,” Oz agrees.

“Actually, not to say that’s not a good reason, but if you were just trying to come up with an excuse to go out and eat somewhere, I’m pretty sure I missed my birthday through all of this,” Elise reveals.

“What?!” Damien shouts. “How do you forget your birthday?”

“What day is it exactly?” I ask, ready to memorize the date.

“January 19th,” she says.

“That was yesterday. How old are you?” I ask.

“Twenty two,” she answers.

Oz gasps, “We have to go somewhere with a cake we can all split. And a really good dinner!”

“I’m not sure if I could pay for that.” Elise admits.

“We’ve got it,” everyone else choruses.

Elise looks incredibly flustered. “Well, seeing you guys fine after all of this is the greatest gift of all.” 

She giggles nervously as Liam gags.

“But yeah, I could eat,” she agrees.

“I know a place about half an hour away fairly well,” I offer. “Waitstaff, where the food comes in, wait times . . .”

“When people piss, the temperature of the toilet seats, what types of sticks do they have shoved up their asses,” Damien continues.

“It’s important to be well informed of your surroundings Damien,” I state.

“Yeah yeah,” he half heartedly agrees. “If this sort of bullshit is going to become normal you should go to Hell. If we all knew how to use a blade or arrow or some shit respectively I think we’d all sleep better at night.”

“That’s actually not one of your worst ideas Damien,” Liam says. 

We all get ready to leave Duarte’s (Elise’s?) estate when I see Elise hanging back. Faintly, I can hear Damien nudging Oz into the passenger seat while he makes fun of my brother’s “skinny ass” trying to get comfortable in the backseat.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“I don’t want to be picky hun it’s just, will there be cute tea snacks or tiny cheesecakes or macaroons?” She peeps.

“I’m sure we can find something.”

_______________________________________

My brother’s small apartment complex looks like it’s exactly his taste, with a curly wrought iron fence I know he must take Instagram photos in front of. Based on the sort of warm, grainy stuff he likes to show me on his profile, the only thing more on brand are the orange ivy crawling up the sides of the antique looking building. 

I step out of the car, the overcast February skies keeping me from needing to open my umbrella. I keep it by my side for later, just in case. Drifting over to the front door, I pause next to the tree growing past the stoop. It’s shade covers most of Liam’s lawn, and I feel oddly grateful for it. 

_ If he rushes out the door without thinking he won’t get burned. _I think, pleased.

I lift the ornate knocker on the front door, but before I let it fall a booming crack of thunder rips across the sky. 

Rain starts pelting the ground.

_ Will Liam even still want to go out? _I think.

I’m tugged forward as the door starts to open, my fist still around the knocker. Elise’s head pops out and I blink hard. Elise might look beautiful with makeup on but without it she looks _ cute _. Her eyes look bigger and it becomes much more obvious how round her face is.

“Are you here for Liam?” She guesses.

I keep a straight face. “Yeah, is he upstairs?”

“Actually he went out to get something. He wasn’t very specific about when he’d be back so you can hang around,” she offers.

She steps to the right and I duck inside. A long hallway stretches out before me, with two numbered doors on each side. Stairs split it in half. 

“I’m not really sure where he’d want you to wait, so I guess you can join me in the kitchen?”

She gestures upstairs. I don’t smell anything, so she must be working on some sort of craft. She’s never made a big deal about doing anything really personal or private when she’s by herself, but I still feel like I’m getting a special opportunity.

_ Have we been alone together since the hospital? _ I wonder. _ Maybe whatever is keeping Liam will keep him a little longer. _

“I don’t see why not,” I agree.

She leads me into a closed, cosy kitchen with a tiny burner plugged into the wall and several glass jars. There’s also a skull covered in red velvet, tea candles, a few geode coasters and some jewelry. She pulls a lighter and what looks like markers out of her pocket.

It’s not difficult to catch on. “You’re doing ceremonial magic?”

“Yeah,” she bites her lip. “I feel kind of embarrassed I was caught so off guard at Duarte’s. I feel like I should of pre prepared something. I’m trying to come up with some tricks now.”

“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen,” I rumble.

“That just makes it worse. A witch should always be ready for anything,” she insists.

_ If I keep trying to persuade her she’s just going to keep feeling worse. _ I think. _ She’s pretty set on this. _

“I’m guessing the skull is for a makeshift altar? It’s the only thing here besides the coasters and markers that doesn’t look like some sort of ingredient,” I point out.

She looks at me curiously. “And what about them? The coasters and markers?”

“I was hoping you would use those on each other but if you decide to go feral and write all over my brother’s walls I suppose I won’t stop you,” I say.

“Why not?” She asks.

“Maybe it’ll teach him to be on time,” I joke.

Her somber face cracks and if I didn’t keep my wits about me I’m pretty sure I’d be smiling too. I make a mental note of how her eyes crinkle when she smiles.

“Who exactly is it an altar for?” I ask.

“Freyja, goddess of love, death, seidr, wealth, beauty, and war,” she recites. “We love a six trick pony.”

She lights one of the tea candles, whispers into it, and sets it down next to the skull. Methodically, she starts to inscribe the pattern of a pentacle onto one of the geode coasters with the markers, before using it as a writing surface to draw another pentacle on a piece of paper she seems to whip out from nowhere. Burning it to ash, she drops a set of diamond studs into a glass jar and pours the ash on top.

“Was that an enchantment?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s a bit of a glamour using Mars,” she says.

“Considering all the associations of Mars it must be a very aggressive one. Maybe to be the most eye catching in a room where there are a lot of contenders, like a contest? Or is it more like you want your glamour itself to be aggressive instead of acting aggressive, like someone with a beautiful but deeply intense presence?” I guess.

Elise looks impressed and I feel a little lighter. “I didn’t realize you knew spellcraft.”

“I try to pick up as much as I can whenever it pops up while traveling. It’s easier to get a handle on all the factors at play in a given situation when you can recognize them and know what rules they have to follow. So I’ve been trying to find a way to reliably tell if someone is using magic, and what laws the type of magic they’re using is constrained to ever since I understood how powerful a factor magic can be. But magic is so wild I don’t think I’ll ever get to the point where I can immediately tell it’s there or how to counter it,” I confide.

“Yeah, it’s much easier to ward against magic than to sus it out. But good on you for trying! If I ever tried to remember how every single praxis worked I think my head would explode,” she says. “Don’t be too hard on yourself hun!”

_ She sounds so earnest. _“I won’t if you won’t.” 

“Huh?” She tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

_ It’s weird to think she’s adorable when she’s missing the point? I like it when she’s clever too, there’s just something so simple about someone who's so air headed that they don’t get you’re talking about them even though you’re literally using ‘you’. _

“I mean you also need to be easy on yourself. It seems like you might be beating yourself up about what happened to you at the manor. I don’t expect you to just forget about it after a month, but I don’t want you thinking it was somehow your fault. We were all caught totally off guard; at the end of the day you managed to negotiate with a maniac and kept them docile enough until we could come save you. I _ never _ want you to do it again, but you showed you’re clearly an intelligent woman. I have no doubt that with magic you’d somehow make yourself look more capable, but I’d rather you be doing it now because it’s an interesting field you like trying to tackle rather than something you suddenly feel obligated to master.”

A silence stretches between us, and I realize that was more than a little intense for what was supposed to be a simple “relax”. _ Maybe I’m the airhead. _

“Um,” Elise stutters. She’s smiling and looking all over the place like she’s not quite sure what to do with the compliment. “Why does this feel a bit familiar?”

I think. “It bears a resemblance to the pep talk you gave me in the hospital.”

“What goes around comes around I guess.”

We lapse into a pleasant silence as Elise methodically continues to place enchantments on other pieces of jewelry. Eventually though she sits back and crosses her arms, grinning.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t know? Today’s just a good day I guess? I felt good about getting up and doing magic today. It feels nice doing it now. I just had a really nice conversation with you. It’s like an abundance of pleasantness. I think the ambiance of the room might be making me giddier than normal. I feel too happy for the low amount of activity going on right now,” she says.

“What exactly is the ambiance of the room?” I ask.

“It sort of reminds me of my childhood bedroom? Like the sort of cloudy, watercolor-y thing the paint on the wall is doing? There’s a Winnie the Pooh mural on the walls that does that to make the ground and grass. It’s such a threadbare similarity but I can’t get it out of my head,” she describes.

“Your parents hired someone to hand paint one of your favorite cartoon characters all over your room?” I feel a little envious.

“Yeah, my dad’s really thoughtful. I can’t actually remember staying in the room as a kid but there’s all these pictures of him playing with me in there. He told me this story about how he turned around to get my teddy bear and when he turned back around I had climbed up the side of the staircase and was hanging off the side.”

“You scaled a flight of steps that quickly?” I let myself laugh.

“Yeah. I wish I had the energy now I did then. Nowadays I get tired after doing, like, two things. And it’s not even consistent because I want to do archery _ and _ boxing _ and _ art _ and _ writing _ and _ online stuff _ and _sewing. I like to tell myself I’m multitasking but I think I’m just half-assing a bunch of stuff in one go. Sixth-assing? I’m not sure, I might have forgotten to count a hobby,” she admits.

“Flitting from thing to thing, never resting or slowing down. Maybe I should call you colibrí from now on,” I tease.

“What’s that mean?”

“Hummingbird. That’s the word for it in Spanish,” I explain.

Elise looks at me curiously. “I never thought you’d be the type to give people nicknames. You’re a lot different when you're relaxed.”

I pull back, surprised the second I finish processing what she’s saying and snap out of the moment. It almost feels like calling her colibrí never happened, because I can’t imagine myself saying it so casually when I’m thinking things through. But I did.

_ Gods this is a bad crush. _ I think. _ I can’t help it though. After what she was willing to do so I could reconnect with Liam, and what it’s like to be around her whether she’s hot or cold. I love to watch her think. Or just watch her, she is so pretty. _

I start to worry. _ Things are so delicate with Liam right now. I can’t get distracted with Elise. Especially since she’s such good friends with Liam. It’s not like he controls who she dates or anything, but imagine getting to know an estranged sibling you haven’t seen in decades again after they begged you to for months, and you find out their head is somewhere else thinking about your best friend? _

Elise snaps me out of my thoughts. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes I was just thinking about Liam.” _ Technically not a lie. _

“Oh, well then you should ask if he’s still looking for a second to go to that fancy party in those abandoned ruins on Friday. He asked me but I didn’t feel up to it,” she says.

I make a note of it. “I’m guessing you don’t feel like doing anything else exciting for a while.”

“It’s not that. I just remember the last party I went to and well, if this one is anything like that I’m going to be reminded how insanely well-off and worldly Liam is. I’m not jealous or anything, it’s just a bit overwhelming. Liam bumped into eight different artists from across the globe and talked, in their native languages I might add, about expensive sounding variations of painting styles. Like, paint made from crushed pearls and 14 karat gold flakes sort of expensive,” she explains.

I make another note to start reading up on art so I can talk with Liam about his interest in it. “Liam is a made man, socializing in an environment he’s used to on a topic he’s well versed in. Naturally the balance of control and presence would look skewed in his favor. You just need to remember he’s talking about a specialized interest and do the same thing. I’d hate for you to stop hanging out because you feel out of place.”

“It’s not that bad! But thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind for next time,” she says.

“Don’t forget you have resources now too. I know having Duarte’s estate is still new to you, but don’t feel bad about spending money if you want to buy a textbook or classes or anything else that you want,” I say.

At the sound of ‘Duarte’s estate’, Elise's expression gets spacey. _ She’s still getting used to that. _

  
  


Before she can say anything, I hear someone move up the stairs. I perk up and turn towards the doorway to see Liam’s apologetic face. Clothes dotted with rain, he holds up a plain brown shopping bag and wiggles it.

“I apologize for leaving you hanging. The line at the bookstore was atrocious. To the indie movie theater?” He asks.

“Yes. And it’s fine, I had a nice time talking with Elise,” I say.

She grins, and I try to push away my turbulent thoughts of all the complications that could arise from the way it makes me feel and my murky relationship with Liam as we walk out. Today is a nice, calm rainy day, and it doesn’t need to be anymore complicated than that.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some doodles of the de Lioncourt brothers. I don’t think Virgil is going to wear that (caveman?) belt skirt thing in this story’s canon, but I wanted to show off his physique. Any Arcana fans can immediately guess what sprite I used as a reference. I’m not sure if his broadness came across well but I like it!
> 
> As for the big smile he’s wearing as he seems to lay down in bed, perhaps . . . it might become story cannon . . . who knows . . .
> 
> Liam took forever to figure out for some reason. I wanted to keep his face looking thin but it kept coming out a little too narrow. And his man bun looked too thin at first. I had to make his hair wavy, when I drew it straight it looked like it was thinning. It helps draw the familial similarities between the two I think. Liam’s hair isn’t as wavy as Virgil’s, but when you throw in the “family” nose, ears, and cheekbones, I think it’s enough to make them look related.


	25. Vignettes - Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show snippets of the group hanging out with each other in a relaxed way to give a feel of what things are like when there isn’t some grand adventure, but at the same time those concepts aren’t big enough to sustain their own chapters. Yeah Oz gushing might be cute, but like not 3,000 words worth of cute, you know? So enjoy these little glimpses into everyone’s life during the calm.

Click Here To Start - Oz

Elise’s face stays straight for about three seconds before it cracks again, and another fit of giggles tumbles out of her mouth. I immediately start giggling too, despite how sure I was that I wouldn’t break again. 

_ Be honest, you weren’t sure at all.  _ I think.

People are starting to look at us; we can’t stop snickering but as far as anyone from the outside looking in is concerned, there’s nothing to laugh about. Not unless kebabs suddenly got really funny.

Elise takes a bite to stifle her laughter, choking on some shrimp when I start giggling even harder, which sets her off and she starts laughing harder too.

“Are you two young adventurers doing alright?”

A werewolf with fiery hair and chainmail stops in front of us. She looks at us like a guard keeping an eye out for trouble, refusing to break character as she does what is probably her actual job, working security and making sure no one is getting drunk.

_ Even the non-story personnel try to stay character.  _ I realize, impressed.

“We’re fine ma’am,” Elise forces out, trying to keep her voice steady. “We’re just really giddy about being here.”

The werewolf’s eyes clear with understanding. “Ah! I completely understand I’m a big fan of . . . “

She leans in to whisper, glancing from side to side to make sure none of her bosses are watching.

“DnD too. When my friend told me a job was opened here I nearly died. I mean, after I learned what here was.”

Moors of Eve is about half an hour away from Salt, and is like a successful themed diner doing fantasy with a few hundred actors all acting as starting points to different, intricate interactive storylines. Also like, a few dozen deadly sports like axe throwing, animals shows, magic antiques, fake guilds, themed trains, musical character performances and quests, so not like a diner at all really considering all of the health risks. I’ve seen restaurants try to pull off selling collectibles at the same time before and the stampede of Karens trampled eight people.

_ This is the closest I’ll ever get to being in a book!  _ I mentally squeal. One of my phobias materializes out of what are pecs today, slides up to my shoulder and grabs my kebob out of my hand before swallowing it whole. 

“Do you have any recommendations about where to start? We tried to read about all the quests in the pamphlet before we got food but there was so much to read,” Elise says. “And I don’t really retain info well when I’m hungry.”

She opens her mouth so she can put most of her kebab in her mouth, before biting down and pulling the stick out. All of the remaining meat and vegetables stay in her cheeks as she chews, putting the now empty skewer in her other fist with three other empty ones.

_ Gods if I’d never seen Damien eat I’d be wondering how someone could pack in so much.  _ I think.

“Well,” the security guard answers. “If I’m going with personal favorites I like the Blackquill Initiation Quest. You have to do a bunch of tasks in order to join a guild of rogues like axe throwing and searching for specific magic herbs in a giant, extravagant garden. When you finish all your tasks, you go back to headquarters to submit evidence of your completion and get formally inducted by the guild master. But it turns out no one can find him because he’s been kidnapped. It’s a fun introduction to the different things you can do before easing you into one of the park's bigger storylines.”

“That sounds perfect!” I frantically wave at Elise. “Let’s find a park map so we can find out where they are. You’re done eating right?”

Elise gives a big swallow and nods. “Let’s book it.”

Just as we turn to go, the guard does a double take at Elise. “Hey, really quick, do I know you from somewhere?”

She frowns. “No, I don’t think so.”

The guard shakes her head. “I feel like I’ve seen your face before. Instagram maybe? Do you have a Netflix show?”

Elise’s eyes widen and our eyes lock, our little vacation seconds away from being crashed by someone recognizing Elise from YouTube.

“Thank you for your help ma’am. I hope you have a good day!” Elise says, starting to back up.

“Yes, goodbye!” I add, starting to speed walk.

We both break into a sprint, nervously giggling as we speed towards (scripted) adventure. Any fun that can come from internet fame can wait. Today we quest!

_ Maybe I can find a fancy knife for Damien. _

Rare Pair - Liam de Lioncourt

“So.”

“So.”

Oz and I stare at the painting in silence. It feels perfectly comfortable to me, but I can tell by the way they start to forget they don’t feel the same way.

“Is the wine not to your liking?” I ask politely.

They look down into their glass. “No it’s perfectly fine.”

“Perhaps then, you feel a bit off color drinking alcohol on an empty stomach. I can wave over one of the charcuterie board servers,” I offer.

I turn towards the milling crowd around us, all supposed admirers of the art museum’s displays, though I see people basically following around the servers to see how much sausage, cheese, crackers, and grapes they can take at once before the servers get annoyed.

I focus on a pooka fighting off a gorgon. The server gives a long suffering sigh. “Sir if you don’t actually look at some of the new opening’s pieces I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Sir!” I call. “My friend here would like some food so they’re not drinking on an empty stomach.”

He looks relieved to have an excuse to restation himself. Striding up to Oz he holds out his plate. Oz hesitates, before pinching some aged sausage off into their hand and grabbing a cracker. The server stares at Oz expectantly, before the latter gives a start and nods a silent dismissal. The pooka ambles away to serve someone else.

“You’ve never been to one of these before with Damien? I figured you’d know how things during one of these events go, networking and all,” I say.

“I-I haven’t been to one in a while,” they admit. “Damien hates events where there’s a limit on how loud he can be, and I feel nervous going to openings without him.”

“I’ve been to quite a few art openings in my immortal lifetime but I don’t think I can call any of them scary,” I say.

“It’s not really the openings themselves that make me nervous.” Oz hesitates. “. . . it’s you.”

_ Well I wasn’t expecting that.  _ “I’m not sure if you’re saying that openings remind you of me and for some reason that terrifies you or that you’ve always been afraid that I’d pop up at one and — oh.”

It sinks in that up until recently I hadn’t been on good terms with Oz or Damien, and for someone like Oz who can become incredibly anxious, the idea that they might run into me was probably nail biting.

“Well there’s no need for that anymore,” I tell them. “We should make a list of places you haven’t been able to check out. It can be a vacation! Art venue after art venue.”

Despite coming up with one of the best uses of time that’s ever been conceived, Oz doesn’t seem anymore at ease.

“Liam, I know this probably sounds like it’s coming out of nowhere, but, well.” They bite their lip. “Do you like me?”

I reel, the painting in front of me suddenly feeling like a blank canvas for all of the emotion it invokes compared to the person standing to my right. I glance around to see if anyone heard Oz; they’re not Damien levels of loud but they weren’t exactly quiet either. A gaggle of women in a corner by an impressionist dressed them down with their eyes, each either giggling into glasses or half assedly hiding a smirk behind a pamphlet. 

_ Gods, when will people who wear Gucci in 2022 as a status symbol learn they’re not in any place to judge anyone?  _ I nudge Oz with my elbow.

“Let’s step outside. I can’t believe I’m saying this but I don’t believe this art gallery is the best place for authenticity right now.”

As soon as we finish locking ourselves into the non gendered bathroom, Oz bursts into tears.

“What did I do?” I ask, scandalized.

“N-Nothing,” Oz blubbers. “I feel like such an idiot. I swear I’m n-not actually this upset. I mean I was definitely anxious when I asked you outside. I- mean . . .”

“Take your time,” I assure them.

Oz wipes at their face and takes a deep, shaky breath. “It’s just, this entire time with you and Damien and your relationship after Spooky High as friends, I’ve always felt weirdly out of it. Before everything went completely wrong, I was cut off first. I mourned Amira but it never felt the same as you two. Your friends always felt bigger, or at least your loss did? And now, when you say you forgive us, I’m not saying I didn’t play a big part in everything, but it kind of feels like you and Damien’s reconciliation, not ours.”

“You didn’t mention this before,” I say.

“It wasn’t like this before! It just sort of sunk in. Like it always has. I convince myself that A-Amira’s funeral was an afterthought to everyone and then I tell myself it wasn’t. I convince myself that I was tacked onto the friend group and then I tell myself I wasn’t. It’s kind of a back and forth. And if I’m always debating if I’m really part of things, then it’s like do you like me? Or am I the group afterthought that just kind of comes with Damien and the reason I barely feel connected to anything is because I’m just kind of there and I was never really part of things?”

Oz has stopped crying, but they’re still tensed up and I can’t help but worry they might start up again. “You’re working yourself up Oz.”

Their face goes from upset to irritated. “I’m not having an anxiety attack or anything, I just feel anxious. Answer my question.”

“Oz do you really think after Duarte’s I don’t care for all of you to a significant degree?” I ask.

They shrug. “It’s not about what I think it’s about what I feel.”

I sigh. “Yes Oz, I definitely consider you a dear friend. Looking back I guess I can see a handful of reasons why you might come to the conclusion you did. The few times we spent alone were relatively quiet, but that was only because out of the friends I had you seemed the best suited for comfortable silence. I couldn’t and can’t just, for instance, go on a simple walk with Damien. It always morphs into some chaotic something or other..”

Oz perks up. “Really?”

I nod. “And if two people spend the majority of their time together only when they’re surrounded by other people, I can see why one would come to possibly think of themselves as an accessory. But it’s never been like that, I promise.”

I clear my throat. “I’ve continued working with my therapist for a while now, and I’ve come to realize that my . . . standoffishness isn’t always as charming as I’ve always convinced myself it has been. Maybe if I had been more direct the few times we hung out together, or more vocally showed my appreciation for the type of friendship you provide this could’ve been avoided. But, in an attempt to brace myself for something that ended up happening anyway, I leaned towards being distant. Damien has known me long enough to be able to tell, but you haven’t.”

Oz looks like the weight of the world has been lifted off their shoulders. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that! N-not the psychological part obviously. The friend part.” 

We make our way out of the bathroom and immediately bump into an older woman. Her expression sours as she looks over both of us judgmentally before glancing at the door to the one person bathroom. I click my tongue scornfully as I immediately connect the dots.

“Oh please, you’d have to be luckier than a pot of gold at the end of three rainbows to see  _ one _ of us walking away from a hookup, let alone both.”

How To Light A Fire - Virgil de Lioncourt

I stare at my hand with intense disapproval as I pick up the box of matches and hand them to Damien, feeling idiotic as I give something flammable to someone I know I can’t trust with a butter knife let alone fire, and resigned as I remember that I only have myself the blame.

_ I might as well get the third degree burns out of the way, I know he’s going to just swipe it when I’m not looking and take them eventually.  _

It’s a defeatist attitude I know isn’t really accurate. Damien is pretty easy to figure out, and I have no shortage of information about him, I could probably get him to chill out with a few nonchalant words. Or maybe I could shoot him an intimidating look. If our first meeting is anything to go on, it wouldn’t make him sober, but it would rile him up, and that’s as good a distraction as any. I actually really like our back and forths.

But turning the situation more in my favor feels like cheating my way out of a punishment. The only reason I’m in this situation in the first place is because I chickened out of asking Elise to go glamping with me. Who am I to gripe about what Damien might do when he’s only here because of me?

As I watch Damien swipe three matches all at once against the side of the matchbox case, I feel myself getting more and more irritated. He lets the giant ball of flame they make burn down to his fingertips before swiping two more before and tossing them into the fire pit. It sparks to life with a dramatic but controlled flame. Damien leans forward to admire it with a sort of maniacal smile, but besides that he doesn’t do anything too wild. But my irritation continues to grow.

_ Okay admit it man, you’re not really mad at Damien.  _ I think.

I imagine Elise getting excited about staying in a cabin and checking out all the taxidermy in the front office a mile away. Or eating roasted marshmallows in front of the flatscreen inside. I still don’t know quite what to do with my feelings about her; my worry about how it might affect my relationship with Liam hasn’t disappeared. But that doesn’t mean I want to just ghost her, so the almost random way I refrained from asking her to come last minute and blurted out the offer to Damien is becoming more infuriating the more I think about it.

_ Is this how I am now? I can’t even spend time with the woman I like to figure out what I should do because I’ve let this mess make me too anxious? I’ve turned into a coward? This better not become a pattern. _

I figured I’d gain control over my life again after reconnecting with Liam. But I’ve just gone from following after Damien because I don’t know enough to following my impulses because I’m too afraid to lose what I just got. Maybe if I had more to go off of I’d be more level headed, but to do that . . .

“I’d have to spend more time with Elise.” I spit out, hating the contradiction.

“The fuck?” Damien pipes up, confused.

I glance at him out the corner of my eye. A thin ribbon of smoke curls out of his mouth as he balances a match in between his teeth. I don’t know how he got the idea to put out matches with his mouth for fun, but the other extinguished matches at his feet are anything to go by, he got the idea about ten sticks ago.

“Nothing, nevermind,” I grunt.

Damien doesn’t look convinced, but he drops it. “If you’re going to talk you might as well tell one of your shitty adventure stories. I just fucking made a perfectly good campfire.”

I smirk. “It sounds like you want to hear a cool bedtime story before you go to sleep but you’re too shy to ask.”

“Fuck off.” He throws the match in his mouth at me. “I don’t need you to have a cool story in my head before I pass out.”

“You have your own?” I needle.

“Fuck yeah I do dipshit. I’m a prince of Hell do you seriously think I haven’t done cool shit?” He challenges me.

I gesture, urging him to go on.

“I used to brawl with my family’s archnemesises on a daily basis. I punched the fucking sun once. Once I got lost in the woods and drank my own piss,” he lists off.

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m surprised you know about that.”

“What? That you can drink your own piss? What, like you’ve done it?” He asks.

“You do remember that one of the main things I’m famous for is being a survivalist right?” I remind him.

His maniacal grin comes back like he’s caught me in a trap. “I figured a survivalist would know how to handle something like interpersonal relationships without riling himself up.”

I give a start before my annoyance comes surging back full force, and this time I can safely say that it’s definitely because of Damien. “You—.”

“Listen,” he cuts me off. “Whatever fucking fight or awkward conversation you and Elise had can’t be as bad as your outburst makes it sound. You’re still fucking friends right? Everyone trips up now and then. Just apologize or try to talk about it again or whatever.”

I genuinely don’t think Damien has ever surprised me so much before. “Has this been your roundabout way of giving me advice?” 

“I mean you’re my friend jackass so yeah, basically,” he says.

I think for a second and realize he’s right. Number wise at least, I’ve only managed to slip up like this once. Since Duarte’s I’ve been fairly normal when interacting with Elise despite feeling anxious around her sometimes. Having my nerves get the best of me one time out of a few dozen doesn’t exactly spell disaster.

_ This entire situation is frying my brain.  _ I think.

“Thanks, I actually feel better Damien,” I admit.

“Good, because I’ve got a bunch of street sausage on a stick I snuck in with my suitcase and put in the freezer. You can’t have a fire and not cook shit!” He turns and opens the sliding glass door, striding towards the kitchen. 

“That sounds disgusting.” I say, though I can’t keep the morbid curiosity out of my voice.

“Suck it up and try it pussy!”

Purple - Damien LaVey

“Hey Liam?” I ask.

He scrolls on his phone for a few more seconds before he answers me. “Yes Damien?”

“Why the fuck are you like, purple? Virgil isn’t purple.” I say.

Oz jerks their head up from their book, scandalized. “Boss! You can’t just ask someone why they’re purple!”

“Why the fuck not?” I ask.

“It’s fine Oz,” Liam says. 

He rests his phone in his lap but doesn’t look away from it.

“Back when I cared about being in my parents’ good graces and played the part of a perfect, traditionalist vampire, I underwent several olde magick rituals at their request. I ended up with a few mutations as a result,” he explains.

“Holy shit, that sounds metal as fuck. Can you like, shoot lasers and shit?” I ask.

Liam rolls his eyes. “If I could do that don’t you think I would’ve done so already? If I could just disintegrate walls with a glance, finding Elise would’ve gone ten times faster.”

“But did it give you any extra abilities?” Oz asks.

“None that you’d find exciting. Most of them were mental, and needed to be used regularly in order to be kept. Naturally, when I decided to be my own person I let most of them fade away, but I made sure to maintain bibliokinesis,” he says.

“What the fuck is that?” I demand.

“The ability to read books and other pieces of writing at inhuman speeds,” Oz explains.

_ “Your supernatural power is to be better at nerding than anyone else?”  _ I cringe. 

Liam huffs. “That would be your takeaway Damien. I’ll let you know that being able to consume great works at expedient rates made me the go to person for special event speeches. You cannot absorb dozens of the finest plays of our time and more poems than there are hours in the day and not become the best at giving eulogies.”

Liam freezes. I can’t figure out the fuck why until I feel a familiar pang in my heart, and realize what he must’ve accidentally reminded himself of.

“Shit, uh, nevermind lets talk about something else,” I sputter.

“No it’s fine Damien. I,” Liam clears his throat. “I don’t want everyone to be walking on eggshells around me forever. Especially you and Oz. It’s not like you two didn’t lose people. I guess I’m just remembering how easy death was to handle back then. I was more desentized more . . . more aloof in a  _ real  _ way. My actions weren’t just distant, my heart was too. Death was more of a product of the times too. Someone was always dying from a plague, or eating something new, or discovering deadly allergies before we really knew what they were. The 21st century rolled around and I guess I ended up getting too used to my friends actually living to old age . . . ”

He trails off, and even though he doesn’t look like he’s about to fucking cry or anything, I still don’t like the possibilities of what could fill the silence if I let it go on for too long.

“Well you’re obviously not as into that stuff anymore as you used to be,” I quickly say. “You’re into art and weirdass hobbies now right? I followed your Instagram and I’ve seen you take photos of that shit! Like really good ones actually. Didn’t you used to layer on a thousand filters to make them hard to see and take them at terrible angles on purpose?”

Liam suddenly looks incredibly flustered. “Ah, I have actually found that I’m taking more proper pictures lately. But it is not something I intend to truly indulge. It’s a bit too plain and mainstream for my taste. I don’t think I could ever enjoy doing something so typical as maintaining an Instagram page.”

“I don’t know if that’s true Liam. Weren’t you Prom King?” Oz asks.

“Oh yeah! Fucking Miri set up that whole rigged prom campaign and you totally bitched about it until everyone started swarming and admiring you. You’re totally fine with mainstream stuff if you know people will like you afterwards!” I exclaim.

Liam looks like he wants to die. “If I admit I like photography, will you drop this?”

“Yes.” I smirk.

“Despite the possibility that it has a high probability of leading to what some might call popularity, I consider photography a hobby I might consider taking on indefinitely,” he says.

“I think that’s the best you’re going to get, Boss.” Oz nudges me.

“I’ll take it.” I smirk.

Liam, a light blush on his face, straightens his collar and tries to regain his composure. “Good, because I can see the waiter coming to take our appetizer plates away and ask about main courses.”

“Dope. If I order the spiced shots off the menu will you help Ozzie carry me home? It says they’ll keep ‘em coming if the first five don’t knock you out and I am  _ absolutely _ taking them up on that.”

“I will  _ not _ .”

Your Room - Elise of Salt

_ Of course this would happen when everything is falling into place. Of course!  _ I ball my hand in my shirt, trying to get rid of the invisible hole in my chest. Nervously pacing in the guest room De Lioncourt gave me on his estate, I glance out a stained glass window to the beautiful scenery outside and grow even more enraged with myself.

_ You’ve always wanted to travel.  _ I tell myself.  _ You always wanted friends like this you were close with that felt like your own little SnapCube. People that are fun and funny, but also personal. Why are you so anxious and jumpy? _

Having just hopped out of bed without facing literally anything yet, the only real answer is that my clusterfuck of mental illnesses is acting up. Not that my OSDD-1a isn’t always in full swing but I’ve been doing so good with my depression and anxiety that I kind of forgot they existed. 

_ Really don’t appreciate being fucking reminded universe.  _ I think, lamenting over my broken steak.

I paw at my arm, hating that my skin feels like it’s too tight. Move towards the end of the bed where my prescriptions hang in a bag. I take my pills, including the antidepressants, dry, and immediately get annoyed that they don’t automatically work. Then I get annoyed that I’m getting annoyed by them not working. 

_ I need a distraction _ . I decide.

_ No shit idiot.  _ I think right after. My irritation rises again until I realize that I’m starting to argue with myself.

I quickly throw on some clothes and step out of my room, trying to scream when I trip over my suitcase by the door. I walk to the end of the short hallway my room is in and stager outside. 

Like something from a movie, the de Lioncourt estate has a stretch of walkway without a roof and huge glassless windows connecting part of the house to the other. At the other end is a door that’ll lead me back inside, and I feel like I can’t get to it fast enough as sunshine bathes my face in warmth while chirping birds fly overhead. Looking for someone to talk to, I pass through countless other larger than life fixtures of the house, including a small pool sized tub crowded with enough bath bombs, special soaps, mixtures and oils to be fit for Freyja. I feel envious as I see a milk bath dissolvable in the shape of an old fashioned milk bottle. I come across a small personal looking library that’s collecting dust and wish I felt at liberty to sit down and read something. Another ornate door leads to a room the size of a walk-in closet filled with expensive looking jewelry that really should’ve been locked. I see an old fashioned cameo choker I immediately want, then feel like a thief for coveting it even though the thought of taking anything never crosses my mind. By the end of it all I haven’t seen a single living soup and seem to have made myself even more upset.

_ I want my dad.  _ I think, imagining him relaxing back in our apartment in the states. Immediately a random memory of me lounging on the couch before my mom comes in and starts yelling at me about being lazy flashes through my mind.

“Fuck!” I shout impulsively, pinching the bridge of my nose.  _ Great now I’m having PTSD flashbacks.  _

I force my head to clear and try to find something to be thankful for.  _ At least I don’t have to deal with any fatigue. _

Almost as if reality is starting to realize how hard it’s riding my ass and decides to take pity, I turn a corner and spot Virgil, immediately calling out. “De Lioncourt.”

“Colibrí,” he rumbles. 

He turns away from the fireplace he’s standing in front of and drifts towards me. I can’t help but smirk at the robe he’s in.

“I didn’t realize I was interrupting you Brad Pitt,” I snark.

“If your insults are veering into extremely handsome Hollywood movie stars, I think you’re losing your touch.” He stops in front of me.

A pleasant woodsy aftershave hits me. “Is the Lord of the house expecting company or did he just finally give up on trying to grow a beard, pumpkin?”

“I’ve grown a beard plenty of times, is that all you’ve got?” He asks.

I start to bite back when my anxiety hits, and I wonder if maybe I’ve been a bit too harsh.

“You know I’m joking right?” I ask, “I’m not genuinely trying to insult you.”

“I picked up on that a long time ago. Besides, I kind of like it when you’re cranky,” Virgil admits. 

“Heh?” 

“I’m not trying to make fun of you or anything. I’m talking about back on the train remember? Our back and forth when we were trying to figure stuff out was nice,” he explains.

Despite it being a pretty glowing compliment, Virgil’s words don’t do anything to lift my mood. I sigh at the fact that I still feel like shit.

“Yeah, despite the heart pounding terror and the ever looming threat of death I really think the Corpse Express brought us together,” I monotone.

Virgil gives me a strange little glance I’ve been spotting more and more recently. It’s definitely friendly but there’s something else I just don’t understand. Any idiot would know the smart thing to do would be to just ask him, but I kind of forgot how intimidating he can be pre fights for our lives. Virgil feels less ambiguously or threateningly intense the longer you know him, but that doesn’t take away that I would be asking someone who can have the presence of a granite statue if he’s trying to secretly send me a message or something; if it’s nothing or something “some and obvious” I’ll feel like I’m dying.

“Is . . . everything ok with you?” His voice breaks me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, just kind of having an off day,” I lie, voice dry.

“I don’t mean that. I can tell you’re anxious, and you’re always sort of stiff when you’re like this. But is “this” really a mood or is there something else going on I should know?” He asks.

I keep my expression passive. “This is just my personality.”

Virgil’s gaze gets a bit more concentrated, a bit more  _ focused. _ “That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

“Ask a stupid question get a stupid answer,” I reply.

Something resolute quickly passes over Virgil’s face before he draws back. He doesn’t need to say anything for me to know I definitely haven’t gotten him to drop this. 

_ Shit.  _ I mentally lament, but my emotions already feel too stretched thin today for the problem that is Virgil poking around my disorder to fully sink in.

_ I’ll freak out about it later, whatever. _

“Where’s Liam and everyone else?” I try to change the subject.

“Am I making you more bored than you already sound?” He banters.

“No, it just seems like this can’t be a proper vampire lair without at least two of you brooding all over the place,” I say.

“My brother dragged Oz and Damien out to get groceries at the Mercado. He called to tell me he needs another twenty minutes to ‘listen to the crunch of baguette crust’ before he can choose one to bring home. Add that to Damien apparently wandering off and needing to be tracked down, I’d say we have a few hours before they come back,” he estimates.

“Well then I guess I’m not exactly uncomfortable if it’s just you,” I say.

I get another glance. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “Being alone with someone can make me uncomfortable because I’m not sure what the tone is supposed to be. Then there’s that old adage of being alone with a man and whatever. But I know you too well to be nervous.”

I actually feel proud that I’ve gotten better socially now that I think about it. Sure I went gung-ho on Liam when I first met him, but my loneliness had been driving me mad long enough that my nervousness around strangers wasn’t as bad, and my other side made talking easier.

“Of course,” I start. “Most of the credit must go to me. The entire reason I know you is because I put the time in.”

I lazily bring my hand to my chest in a dramatic, self congratulatory gesture.

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to take it away from you,” he replies. 

We drift over to the couch and armchairs. Virgil sighs as he sinks into the leather cushions.

“When I was a child and had just come home from being a de Lioncourt in public all day I would always make a beeline towards these. I’d pass out the second I laid down. I hadn’t even been alive long enough to have my age be more than one digit and I already felt like I had a job,” he confesses.

“I don’t know, I always wanted to be ‘a someone’,” I say. “Like a person from an admired or respected family. Maybe even just a group. Not someone who made people go insane like the Knowles. More like excited gasps and people wanting to ask you questions about what you’re up to. Like the Indiana Jones family or something?”

“I didn’t mean I didn’t want to be a de Lioncourt. I would’ve relinquished everything the minute it got passed down to me if that were the case. Being a kid in the family was just stressful. But let’s talk more about your fascination with the ‘Indiana Jones family’.”

“Why are you putting an inflection on the end?” I ask.

“It just sounds a little odd you would call them the Indiana Jones family.”

“What else would I call them?”

“The Joneses?” He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Oh please, you wouldn’t have known who I’m talking about if I didn’t say the whole thing,” I defend.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but there aren’t a lot of fictional families running around trying to uncover lost artifacts and translate grand old languages like Latin,” he says.

“Latin isn’t a grand old language hun,” I quip flatly.

“It’s the basis for most languages we know!” He argues.

“Doesn’t change that it died. If it was so great why isn’t it still around swinging it’s big ol’ linguistic dick around?” I drone.

Virgil makes a sound akin to choking as I pile on.

“Died like a shitty bitch. Tiny little mousy bitch that likes to climb in the walls and look for shitty cheese,” I taunt.

I’m sure I’ve made Virgil laugh before, but whatever that is nothing compared to the grand, rich sound that comes out his mouth and fills the room. His deep voice is always nice to listen to, but now it is positively melodic.

“Spending time with you is different than Liam,” I remark.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I guess that Liam and I will talk about what’s going on in our lives, but a lot of the time we end up veering off into analyzing pieces of media or mental stuff or the nature of the universe or something. That’s completely fine, but I like it when things are really relaxed like this,” I say.

“Well now that you have Duarte’s estate you can pay to drop by anytime you want when I’m not in Salt. Or I could keep flying you over as a guest. I just figured the one solely responsible for our relationship would want to be the one responsible for keeping it going,” he snarks.

I make a face. “Speaking of Duarte’s did I tell you about Woriwed following up when I went there to meet some of the account managers? You and Liam were right about him testing us or whatever bullshit he told himself he was doing. He said that standing up for myself considering the circumstances showed an admirable lack of shame and the way I operated displayed resourcefulness that deserved to be recognized. His boldness is staggering.”

“Do you want a distraction?” He asks.

“ . . . Sure?” 

I follow him out of the room back the way I originally came. But before he gets to the walled bridge that I crossed he takes a different turn and gestures out a window.

“Where you’re staying is really only used for guests. I’m not talking about just your room. I barely go in that half of the house. There’s just too much of the estate to be frequently visiting each room on a regular basis. We know each other enough that I think your space should be more personal than that, so I just put you there until I finished arranging something else. I just remembered your hobbies and went from there. I’m working on rooms for everyone else too.”

He boldly swings open an art nouveau looking door, but before I can make a crack about how jealous Liam would be, my eyes register everything in front of me. 

Having a sort of domed pointed ceiling I’m used to seeing in churches with exposed wooden rafters, the room already looks grandiose enough without the stone walls, but their addition makes it feel like I’ve stepped into a room in a castle. A cast iron chandelier bathes the room in the sort of warm light that can only come from a dimmer switch, rivaled only by the luminescent streaks of color shining through the stained glass window. It sits above the biggest window seat I’ve seen in my entire life, which is covered in a bunch of colorful Turkish pillows and blankets. Somehow the grand canopy bed in the corner manages to look cozier.

But all that means nothing when I see the desks on the other side of the room.

“Gods De Lioncourt, have you forgotten anything I’ve said about myself?”

Three big, sturdy desks line the wall, the two framing the other bending at the room’s corners. One is clearly made for sewing; there’s draft paper, tools, a machine, and thread with a few bolts of fabric. The one in the middle is bare save an Internet router and a chalkboard hovering over it. And the third at the end has just about every ingredient a magic user could need: twine, antique charms, feathers, herbs, dried flowers in jars, wooden circles, vintage tag labels, leather notebooks and an assortment of candles ranging from tea and taper to scented.

“I pay attention to all of my friends. But if it’s too much I understand,” he says.

I choke. “Too much? I know I’m probably supposed to be acting like a true Disney princess and say I can’t take this but I am  _ way _ too materialistic. Thank you.”

I walk deeper into the room, and it feels like I’ll never run out of things to notice. The window seat is in its own little elevated alcove. There’s a fireplace with a TV mounted above it next to my bed. Said bed seems to have strings of light inside amongst the curtains if I ever want it to look more ethereal than it already is. 

I’m not an idiot. Virgil didn’t build this room, but he picked it out knowing how stunning it looks. I don’t know if the furniture was here before, but he obviously took the time to fill it with a bunch of hobbyist things I’d like. He’ll never have to worry about money a day in his life but that still must’ve cost more than a few bucks.

_ Does Virgil . . . like me?  _ I ponder.

I feel stiff, but not because I hate the thought. I just don’t know what to do with myself. If I was feeling peppier I might cup my chin or do a little pace. But that sort of thing doesn’t come naturally to me when I’m not, so the sudden bolt of curious energy that strikes my body builds and makes the way my arms are locked up by my sides more obvious than ever.

_ Can he tell that my mind is racing right now? That I feel more awake than ever?  _ I think.  _ How would I actually figure that out? I can’t just ask.  _

“Great.” Virgil continues, as if he hasn’t dropped a Gordian Knot of Mystery into my lap. “I have a vanity that matches the bed I can bring in from the basement if you want.”

_ I don’t hate the idea of him liking me, but I don’t have a crush on him either. Imagine if I say something and it’s nothing. I’d be overthinking this for no reason and he’d probably be nervous about doing favors for forever. There’s a good chance it’s nothing right? _

“I also found some shower chalk that doesn’t leave stains if you want to take another crack at that ritual you told me about. They’re in the desk drawer,” Virgil says.

_ Maybe I am an idiot. At least I feel too stunned to be depressed anymore. I can’t even pinpoint how I feel about this. Virgil is objectively gorgeous, I look forward to being around him, and I enjoy the sound of his voice. But I’ve never thought about it more than that. He’s an attractive friend from my beloved group of attractive friends. _

“I got bread boxes so you can do that thing you told me about using them as storage, but I didn’t put them out. I wasn’t sure where you’d want them, and I wanted to offer you some old trunks instead. If you want to take notes so you can remember where everything is, I’d recommend hanging up some picture frames and writing on the glass if you run out of room on the chalkboard.”

I feel like the wheels in my brain are turning fast enough to grind rocks to dust while going absolutely nowhere.  _ I can’t think past anything besides being friends. Not because I don’t want to or because I want to but I’m scared I just can’t.  _

“Elise?” Virgil snaps just fingers.

I jerk to attention. “What?”

“Do you want to get the bread boxes or trunks?” Virgil asks.

“I’ll figure it out later.” I clear my throat. “Lets just watch a movie or something.”

“What do you feel like watching?” He asks.

“You decide. If I try to think about anything else today I think my head will explode.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How am I only 70% done with this monstrosity? Tell me what you think of what’s happened so far below.


End file.
